The Wind

I am the wind that stirs between the boughs, going through the night, a night dispersed and stretched; I whisper to the sea, or warble down;
let me arise into the notes, hear the wind’s wing, or cry a while.
My voice is soft as voice, now noise or hark, whom I send, feel the bark is wet, in the new born knots, fingers caught in gold sudden, it is pale, it is exchange. Take me from the memory that lingers, for the tree and I grow old
in every season.

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