MAKING YOUR NAME

 Frank Richardson

MAKING YOUR NAME

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.