The so and many ways to sing the breeze,
whether it is breath or breathed,
or hummed in trees unleaved,
bison-heard on plains or high-crested seas,
it is wind that rattles here – here upon the eaves.
Church bells are not pealed, but pushed
pitched rods hung from the porches of time,
piped and true turbulent – these random tines
of a taking – this chattered on a window,
scraped on a pane, loose-glazed and limed.
And whether we praise or for that matter pray:
wind don’t speak my name, don’t gust me down.
The each and all a song, harsh as a gale or a brief
unsettled sway – slack as linen and sung that way.