A windswept day beckons the heart of me, I
Hear it whispered there, even as it moans
Through the old hollow tree in my backyard, a
Somehow forlorn coexistence to the hollows of
My inner self, a not quite unpleasant sound like
Ancient music strummed by timeless fingers.
And I listen to that nature’s song, both within
Myself-the nature of what I am-and without, a
Memory surfacing of some long ago train in a
Now forgotten town, its whistle blowing beyond
My open window, the child I was looking up at
A summer moon as I stood there in the night.
Funny, what a March wind can do, when the
Sky is slowly bled of light, clouds pregnant
With rain blotting out the sun, funny how it
Seems to know, that wind, things I thought
Left behind, but somehow felt in that singsong
Lullaby, swept along its wake like yesterdays leaves.