| Blow
William Aarnes
Living where breezes barely blow,
I miss the steady prairie winds.
Our house blew away
when I was ten
but still—
the language needs
a blustery synonym
for this becalming still—
in spite of that
I rush outdoors
most times a gale
tosses the trees.
I’ve stood at the edge of cliffs
where gusts were more
inspiring than the views.
Someday I’ll visit southern France
to face the mistral,
San Francisco to stand ruffling
in the Diablo,
the Sahara to risk a stifling
in the simoom. . . .
Buffeted
on the ferry to Holyhead,
I’ve struggled toward the bow,
minding only a little
when my glasses
flew off into the sea.
Some summer in the Adirondacks
I mean to meet my microburst.
Continued
in volume 43, issue 4, autumn 2007 |
