The Wind

the wind sounds like a big
machine
as it whistles past this house
the dust growls loudly
as it polishes the windowpanes

a screen door bangs
against the carcass of this house
two sad eyes stare into the winter (framed by shutters
and candlelight)

the wind speaks the language of the mournful
(but i don’t care) inside this house the wind is silenced
by the clapping of the clapboards the barking of the trees
the shuddering of the shingles and the repertoire
of the leaves (this house is empty
except for me)

she ties her hair in ribbons
and cries out to the wind: why
should you scare my innocence so
or is it you laugh at me?
“sing to me my child” – the wind mocks. “sing to me
of jelly sticks (and doughnuts)
of lemon drops and lullabies”

(she pauses) the wind is hungry!  (that’s why
it howls at me!) she places her hands against
the mirror and sighs: what a relief!

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