The foreign wind came from the south this time.
The leaves of the oak tree rustle, whispers gone
unheard by benign passerbys. Grass blades,
sharp as knives, can’t deny undulation.
Water rushes, seeking a push from the
pull of a current set in stone. The fire
bellows, craving and racing for freedom
unknown. The ears of the deer twitch left- no
-it must be right. I can no longer tell
if it’s day or night. A wolf’s nose pointed
south. An oak tree bathed in moonlight (or sunlight?
Either way, it’s starlight) stands naked in
twilight. Treasured emeralds, coveted
shamrocks, and ripened pears surround. Faded
moss and desiccated sage coat the dry
ground. Who said beauty was lost in graveyards?
They said they could hear the wind cry. I’d be
lying if I said the ethereal
wove veracity, though the yearning burns
in me. Yes, I know truth is born amongst
the deprived- a virtuous creation
always leaves you blind. See? Nature listens.
The wind shuts each mouth tight every time.