raining dead pine needles down
it is rippling abandoned bird baths
conflating tree branches in the distance
into singular writhing shrouds
the wind is uprooting baby carrots
causing flimsy old tin roofs to flap
it is spinning colourful pinwheels
in the hands of infants on creaking boughs
enthroning all that exists in-flux
the wind is skittling dead history
in its eddies tumble perspectives past
it is puncturing tires on wheelbarrows
filled with eighteen years of dust
prising open pendants with rusted clasps
the wind is an index of languages
a teacher both roaring and mute
it is turbid river water snaking forever
through the ether of exhausted souls
bending sunlight aslant on tired truths
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