AEOLUS

                                                                         

                                                                        
Without grasping whether black branches
Silhouetted against the morning sky thrust forth
With buds hidden against its grayness, I wonder,
Rather, does the gray oppress

The rattling of their fingers
Which attempt to undermine vague fog?
The coiling wind might divulge the secret of
The winning claim. The wind’s might, with a
Current of change, calls latent valor against
The strength of mystery.
It stirs hibernation, forcing it to grow
Weary. It stirs attempts of hoary laughter at
A false spring smothered. It calls forth
Rain to revive and cleanse. It calls forth
Snow to blanket more sleep.  It clears
The path for Helios in his shining chariot.
The wind, ambiguous to the eye that peers
Out the window, seizes
A revel in March.