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Wind Cuts Three Ways
March 13, 2019
A baby's toy
Floating in the branches of a bare frost-bitten oak
Lime greens and cyan bright pinks atop a gray smoke
Tears of a mother and some sorry old bloke
Outlined against the frost-bitten, cobalt greens
Where cold wind intersects itself and
stops
to pick up a flower
And goes tumbling between branches
screaming along a creek, soft burbles rushing by
enough force to blast Orpheus into the sky
Twigs don't flutter to the ground, they slam
Echoes of dead indented leaves
Wind cuts like a knife and so does loss
and so does not knowing
© Callie F., Tustin, CA
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