The Wind is a Pauper
The wind is a pauper planning a revolution, a falling
of willow branch, fence slat, nails, and broken buds of spring.
I meant to dream of us running for the bus on the street
next to the pasture, how we shout each other’s names
in the din of the wind, how we anticipate shelter
and wheels below us, how we have somewhere to go,
but instead I lay in bed awake listening to whispering
after I held our dog while he seized and died, and you said,
It was the wind, and I said, No, it was something else,
but I couldn’t make out any words. Then you left
and I stayed in our home feeling his absence while the wind
knocked and groaned, and outside the willow bowed in the dark.
The wind promises me new regimes where doors open to the buds
that blind us in their light, where hush becomes husk peeled
to reveal kernels for the horses that lean over the fence
so we can feed them while we wait for the bus
in the dream I never had. You see, I miss you, and I miss
the soft black and white fur of our dog. I could tell
how heavy he was in your arms, how you struggled
with his dead weight. And now the king and queen have fallen
and I feel their empty thrones in my spine and neck,
the ache of all we left behind, while the pauper gathers
fallen branches and promises us this revolution will not devolve into terror.
The horses in the dream I never had crane their necks toward me
like an answer. The bus windows are dark. A whisper asks me
to hush and listen. A May crown topples in the dark.