Le Mistral

The rabid zephyr that recoils from us both,

must know something of love that we do not,

when from across the curling streets of this small town 

it whistles to me the tangerine tunes 

of peaceful pockets bursting at our touch. 

At the furling lip of this tapered hemisphere 

sits the wet and heavy tongue of stagnant ponds

the quiet rims of ocean landings 

where seaweed shackles coil about our ankles 

and pull us under that we may listen 

to the stereo sounds of the quivering deep. 

The gale that wraps its scarves of salt about our arms

Unbinds us only as the skin begins to split 

at fragile seams where worms of doubt have made their beds 

and tears of heavy leaves begin to seep into our sores. 

The patient wind awaits the inevitable thunder

that carves a hole of space across our skies 

That it might wind its way into our leaking hearts 

and lay there rows of egg and seed 

from distant and mysterious flowers. 

You and I both know how this begins, 

with currents cold of melting ice 

and moisture howling through the grass 

In one fell breath the tempest rests 

and leaves behind its trail of glass.