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Sunday, April 13, 2014


 Frank Richardson


The wind, in from the desert,
Ruined from running through
The litany of winter, barely able
To speak.  Still, now it attempts
To say your name.  Blows through
The vowel sounds, leaving them
In the trees.  chases birds across
Alfalfa.  Their bodies make letter forms,
Change into wheels.  Unable to land
They find shelter in the ditches,
Clutching weed stalks, rocking.

Walking past the cottonwoods,
I hear it clearly for an instant,
Your name.  Impossible in such
Late weather, but there, nevertheless
Or perhaps it is other, a scraping
Sound of branches against themselves,
Well above the ground.  Perhaps
This is not language, this time.
Perhaps I am wrong.

Wind inside my coat, through
The neck, forcing words from my mouth.
They make your name, as if I had
No choice, as if I were the desert,
Or, at best, a part of winter too,

full of hands, waving, waving.

1 comment:

  1. What is in a name, D.R.? This poetic query gives rise to the organic name within us all - and that is spiritual! I love this poem, D.R. -