Random Acts of Poetry

Wind

It's this storm time, spirit-sick,
that's to blame:

each hour falling like a leaf,
spinning through its vortex,

then lost in the frantic grass,
while the shaking foxgloves,

white and anonymous,
tear off their garments.

So the ineludible
dispersion of the morning

continues its whirling, flying off
past caring. Meanwhile

this jet of mud, of memoirs,
of ambition for periods of demand,

hits like a lightning strike
with one determined target:

He who calls on the sky
to transport a tingling.

The lines fall,
charred splinters,

and still the fields wave,
uninterested.