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.