What says the wind that whispers still,

Between these trees that dot the hills,

With words that don’t resemble ours

Spoken softly or with power,

Whose voluminous body flies,

In wintry gusts mid evening skies,

Driving clouds from height to height

Tilting stubborn trees toward the light,

Shifting titian seas in waves,

And bunkers men indoors for days,

Or carry with the softest ease,

Downy flake from frosty tree,

Awaken earth from out its rest,

And usher in forgetfulness,

Mingle with the conscious seams,

But do not end this morning dream

It’s mournful howl beats fervently

Between this sleepy world and me,

Where voices rarely break the hum

Of rolling clouds in unison…