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Grass a swarm of wind.
Wind a swarm of grass.
red...green...orange...red...
all down the empty avenue --
for the wind?
Suggested by Manhattan avenues at 3 or 4 a.m. The
lights are co-ordinated all down the long avenues, on
some changing at a staggered rate, a ripple of green
running down through more than 100 lights, followed
by an orange ripple, then a red. On other avenues, they
change all at once, about 20 lights at a time. This
goes on day and night, mostly for the wind, and a few
cabs, one of them driven by me, once upon a time.
For us,
the big American flag
belly-dances in the wind.
Silver pennant of spit
caught on a dry stalk
plays tug-of-war with wind.
Wind--the L.A. air flexes
its unaccustomed muscles
in those palms.
"Unaccustomed" because L.A. doesn't get
much wind, or so it seemed to me, with my Minnesota
upbringing. No sheltering mountains in Minnesota, but
lots of very talkative trees, if wind sound is tree
talk.
Neatly ribbed desert slopes -
the wind an old Japanese
gardener's rake.
The ribbing suggests to me the wavy rake marks in
the sand of Zen gardens, which, in turn, were perhaps
meant to suggest wind and wave.
Much has died
in the quiet cold. This wind
sloughs it away.
Winter night.
In the broken trees, wind
sulks...sulks...sulks...
Across the dark pond advance
hosts of whiteness, marshalled
by the wind.
It's a high wind indeed when it can stir whitecapped
waves on a mere pond (or a mere mere - a "mere"
is a pond, and when windless, may be a mirror mere).
Most of the trees are gone.
The wind's voice
grows hollow.
Under a pine -
rain drop catches on my tongue.
Taste of wind.
Stop HASSLING me!
says tree. HEY! says wind - HEY!
You LISTEN to me!
Listen on a windy night (nags the poet) and you'll
hear their quarrel.
When trees stand still,
bird noise reminds spring wind
that it has been there.
Birds and winds compete to be the voices of trees,
feuding ventriloquists.
No rain. Cars clawed by
wind-blown sand shiver
in watery eyes.
Spring. I feel my face
smiling as it feels this breeze
feeling leaves dancing.
Late fall wind
in bare trees outside
the shower-steamed bathroom window.
Stuffed with Chinese food -
the wind will be sharp
when I step outside.
A cold wind always seems to bite more when one has
just eaten a large hot meal.
What a wind!
My spit is still flying...
There! A record!
Driving, my hand
out the window, surfing
waves of air.
Leaves fall. Wind, checking,
fingers my cheeks: Not ripe yet,
try again next year.
Trees moan,
releasing into the wind
their seed.
Why don't these windy trees
shut up, so I can hear
the cars?
A senryu, perhaps, since it is pretty much a joke.
The car noise usually drowns out the tree noise outside
our bedroom window. Perhaps that's why we've had so
many hurricanes lately: The wind resents our drowning
it out.
Terrorist alert.
Out the window, branches sway,
breaking up the sky.
The wind buffets
leafy branches, rearranging
sky lace.
How is it this wind
bites my ears, but only licks
the grass on the hills?
In this breeze my collar
stands on my shadow's shoulder
like Cupid's wings.
Clouds flying,
a boy's cuffs swinging with each step,
autumn soon.
Draggled in branches
among new buds -- broken kites.
A cold wind.
Fall wind swarms
red ivy, the wall rippling,
wave after wave.
Wall stops wind.
Wind whirls sand.
Sand abrades wall.
The ocean of air is alive,
breathing into and out of
our lungs.
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