2/30

4/2/13

Ran to the door in the middle of the night -
the wind blew savage and obstinate;
oak pollen swirled in the light of one crooked lamp
near the street. It gathered against the curb,
alongside the lawn's edge like oddments,
forgotten things.  The leaves spoke in cutting tones,
most likely to the moon itself. I was just an observer
in the midst of it all, unnoticed but for the mockingbird
who trilled once, then gave up, realizing its call
was swallowed by the wind.

By the time the wind stopped
and the leaves quieted their quarelling
and the moon slid softly into the mountains
I knew I was the bird, I was the wind, the leaves,
the pollen.  I was the moon.  These are my mountains
to slide into,  my wind to lose a voice in, my curbs
to sidle against. This is my night.