I wish in sounds that the wind makes
when rustling the leaves in rain, and
shakes, scattered and thrushed.
In a way, it is like breathing –
in another, waved and brushed.
I brace my frame against the chill
that stuns and stings,
and howls the shrill coil.
The fear that it brings,
headlong and brittle
into the wind.
I lose myself in those rushing moments
of burst and calm, the fate of limb
with a wandering unction.
Casting aside the lithe, cold grim
then writing in new script, a whim.