POET FOR RENT
The wind is dying into blue emptiness overhead.
Great valves and invisible gears grind just out of sight
beyond the green hills of the horizon.
It is a free and softly yielding calm
that has descended briefly
to stand charmingly defiant
between the armies of the clouds.
The churning warfare of the void
is stunned into embarrassment
by the brashness of the sun
which dares now to interrupt
frigid battles of the Winter storms
and insinuate, with the coy and bashful
innocence of a baby's smile,
that conflict and pain are but a part
of the whole fabric of this life.
None the less important, but no less
the part than whole, it is the perfect time
to draw In fresh breath and pause,
anticipating the great green peace
which always follows the last warlike cry
of bleakest Winter.