. . .again, the wind, great gusts of it, the palms bending top-heavy
to the side and the chimes playing 57 octaves
in the chinaberry tree. A musician’s
chime,
even in sheer gusts, it remains melodic,
when the sky is being tossed back and forth again
in restless hands,
carrying rain bits of leaves, the gloves go flying
off the gardening table, empty containers
down the street, stirred
and stirring, the wind
blowing
open
again the doors
of karma. What does it mean…
probably nothing,
some god is angry, someone
turns in her bed to the body of hope,
and you, sitting
in the gusts of yourself, your hair caught
after the frozen hours of grief, the numbness
of language in the body, are happy
just to feel something
moving,
not caring where it’s
going. . .