What the Wind Can Do

One day I saw my father

standing naked.

The wind had carried him past

sixty eight Novembers,

through being loved,

beneath a mountain range

of esoteric books.

The wind had taught him songs,

killed his parents

when he was just a boy.

The wind had sent those witches

from Macbeth

to tell him he would never be a king

never be a useful thing

so the Earth reached out its paws

and took him as a plaything.

What can I say in revenge?

That in the awful silence

of the wind’s eye

I feel no fear?

Some days I get a funny feeling.

I’m certain we cannot know

what has been given

or taken

until a storm has passed.