What the Wind Is Doing
It's rocking an empty flowerpot perched
in a pine tree: 'RockABye Baby in the High Top,'
its contents shell shocked in this February
of zero wind chill. It's the heart's empty nest,
cold ripple of a lake that threatens to overtake,
were it not for higher ground. We've wind
from the northeast, sharp and heartless,
harbinger of storms, but I am Barrier Island,
formed by one who taught me by salt, sea-
shell, and the sting of sand, bitter winter spray
in remembered summer. Land bound,
one learns to light where something shores us.
So here am I , despite trade winds, the Skull
and Bones of picturesque pirates, failed
story tales where even the wind lies.
In the lake one small duck, sustained by
its currents paddles my direction, drawn
by intuition or design of a kindred spirit who
would sail, dive with delight, endure
the cold solitude of seagulls at evening,
seeking harbor far from their ocean.
They are white flags signaling Yes,
You will find your heaven.
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