As I stand tall
amid towering trees
the wind is my mistress,
timeless mentor,
enlightening guide.

The wind is sentient
like this clear sky,
like my spirit
browsing a stratosphere
way up high.

Without wind we’d be
bereft of our
supernal courier,
and left wanting
as if without color.

As if without color,
no blue water
nor chlorophyll
to give us green
and the food we eat.

The wind can act
wicked as witches
arrayed on broomsticks
spreading fire across
vast landscapes.

It will blast buildings
to utter shreds, make
vagrants of otherwise
happy nesters,
exacting dread.

Yet I kiss the wind
hello and goodbye
as I blow all around
the globe in dreams
that will not subside.


Thomas Piekarski is a former editor of the California State Poetry Quarterly.

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