On Writing

Poem 178 – wind in maples

wind in maples

the maple leaves are tired
their tips turned in to funnel the wind
the wind that hasn’t quit for days
it’s exhausting – all that swaying
all that noise
the out-of-control of it all

they have been bowing down for hours
reaching for the moist earth for something
to hold onto other than themselves

in pauses between gusts
I can hear them
their subtle release like bones bracing
under muscle contracting
that physical weep before
panic or elation
before the rigorous repetition of living

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