Chinook winds gusting to 80 km/h
This afternoon the wind's
on a barometric rush
ripping the last brown leaves from November poplars
beguiling the litmus-pink
out of frozen geraniums.
It's a manic phase
the wind is loath to lose
a boisterous gene from the Roaring Forties
that makes it fumble plywood
down a dead end alley
badger sullen cardboard boxes
into unaccustomed air.
The wind's multi-lingual, been around the world
more than once
blustering words from billboards
wherever it roams
Calgary nach Kairo
and on to Hong Kong
barefoot in a wild saraband the wind
won't dance alone.
The joyful have no patience with inertia
all's stop and go
like an oversized puppy
untrained to the leash.
Don't sing the wind Gimme shelter
it never will. Let it drink
old snow, lap ice from the outdoor faucet
take you someplace
you've never been before.
