This very wind
This very wind
has sailed the scribbled isobars
a hundred times around the world
since its question, chanted by maple, oak,
and beech, first woke me
one night, two thousand miles
and sixty odd years ago.
Today, muse of dry
eucalyptus leaves below
a low October sky,
it’s asking again.
I am still, listening,
and still foolishly
hoping to know
something.
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