New Feature: Monday Poem

I'm going to post a poem every Monday. Some Mondays it will be a new or old poem by me. Other days, when I'm sick of myself, I will post a poem by someone else.

Today's featured poem I humbly submit from my collection, Like All We Love.


Wind

Without objects, the wind
can’t speak. A whispering
pine, a blue oak, something
with corners that won’t bend

an inch, like the concrete
corner store. What’s the wind
after all but a blend
of things, a space replete

with skin, a rest between
breaths or breasts. See that cleave
between branches where leaves
at rest decompose? Lean

into it, the blender
of line and arc. The wind
just might suddenly send
a message, might render

a note of some sort that
you can sing later. When
given time, spaces tend
toward each other, lean fat-

ly into the plenty
of matter. What’s unseen
in the coilings between,
we receive as bounty

or irritation that
nothing is unfilled. Dust
swaths the shelves, nonplussed
at the breeze of the fat

feather duster. There’s at
least a century of crust,
of film, membrane—at least
an epoch. Wind doesn’t

blow things away, just
adopts them briefly,
sets them down again
embroidered with warm ghosts.