The Wind

I am the wind,

I wave for the trees,

and the rusty grass shows

its wound—not signifying

my providential hands.

O love, do we fawn?

I should tell them

that the dust despoils the air.

But still in my kiss,

running with the light

and water’s mirrored paths.

I am wild with my fame,

and I lose you eternally

in this drifting creak.

I will rest a moment

by the wind fingers

and cannot regain

my pledge. I feel

that all the spirits play;

therefore, together we drift.

• HD