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.

END