Talking about the Wind
to invoke the
We do the same to them.
I hate to say the spring. It's become
bone-deep routine. Nice going,
or bluster, even the little
leaves that top
(shrunk coinage) you take
charge and a share
of everything, leaving the roots
and skeletons of these, who say
to say them to you all year,
with what you've done,
do now, and soon will. Opposites
I say, always the most
taxing. That one tree
without moving willing to walk
into the wind all by her heroic lonesome
until my eyes move and her branches
tie her to a sister next to her. Even
my winnowing self, which loves distinctions,
confuses her with her.
With these actions your world
takes off a layer from us.
A hand mimes a knife drop, as practice.
I'm close to nothing
all at once, and it makes
small sense, as much as
talking about the wind as an amount,
paid or refused. Or throwing my love
as I always do
over sleeping things, the slow, and what the wind
makes by blowing over,
and then throwing myself over my loveó
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Copyright © 2013 by Katie Peterson
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission