Even the greatest gale She is but a whisper When Earth revolves Beyond the speed of sound Sometimes trees shatter Waves surge and swash Our hair backwards blown She’s not quite glued to gravity Vanilla vetiver pheromones Pine resin wood smoke Caramel of marshmallow Wind-borne scent remembrances So it is on this hill White pines top the canopy Nature’s breath comes on slowly A gentle wash of kelp against rock ----- When the beech and maple are bare Her twirling Noreast shivers Incite buzzing swarms of twigs Too early for tree frogs thrumming Summertime the green world Breezes twinkle the poplar leaves Light dances in the understory Synchronous shadows depose balance Geosmin rules the rainy perfume Until lightning’s ozone owns the petrichor With humidity the fungi fester Perspiration like tidal pools Dry autumn breezes She signals school and funerals Leafy mosiac tapestries shimmer Arboreal cathedral calm for a time ----- End of day end of season Memory filling Wind on the hill Transience was never as permanent Scattered black feather hoodlums Break the calm of dusk Murderous calls mete out justice Upon one in their thieves band Darkness lowers its late grey curtain She holds her breath once more Then turns about cool now Flowing presently down this hill There she sleeps Fitful sleep of gasps and withers Until with the morrow sun Wind resumes her erstwhile ways © Matty Adams, 2024
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AuthorMatty Adams (born Matt Stinchfield), 9th generation English colonist living on ancestral lands of Abenaki peoples. A person who writes prose and poetry, non-fiction (even if you don't believe it is true). Let us not define beings by the things they do, but by the love they bring. Please do not confuse my work as a definition of me. ArchivesCategories |