Jenny would love this gusty wind
were she with me here to see it playing
in these tall oak and birch she
likes to wander through.
She would love this gutty breeze
which sneaks beneath the leaves
and rustles them until they waken.
Wind
pretending it's morning still, pretending
it doesn't know about the silence
that swept across the world
yesterday.
Breeze tries harder now.
Relentlessly it tries
to sweep the leaves and branches
into some playful mood, some whim
to rouse us from the numbness
of our silence. The air
pauses haltingly, then gusts—
rampaging, raging
as if to chase away the darkness
as if to quell the soundless whelming of her death
before it blackens out September.