Jenny would love this gusty wind
were she with me here to see it playing
in these tall oak and birch she knows so well.
Yes, Jenny
would love this gutty wind which sneaks
beneath the leaves, rustling them
until they waken. The breeze
pretends it’s morning still
pretends it doesn’t know about the dark
the silence
which has swept across the world
since yesterday.
The wind is trying harder now.
Relentlessly it tries
to sweep the leaves and branches
into some sort of playful mood
some whim
to rouse them from the death-like mourning
of their silence.
Now and then
it pauses haltingly a moment. Then
rampages
rampaging
as if to chase away the darkness
as if to quell
the soundless whelming of her death
before it blackens out September.
© 1990, 2006
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