Winter-deprived - 5771

It was the wind
Like the crack of a whip -
The kind that goes right through -
It was the old sunlight I knew,
Angled low on stone -
It was the long bright vista
Streets had become.

My soul's writ large
In wintry things -
I love the wind - its howl and roar -
The lash and toss of trees
As if they would uproot themselves
And fly from languid fixity -
The upsurge of every planted entity,
The whirl and flight of leaf and twig -
The light beyond the sandstorm.


That stormday in Teveth
I came alive. I marveled
How long it was that I had been
Winter-deprived.