Night wind shakes the house,
rattles winter windows.
Awake, I flick
off flatscreen weather jabber,
wrap myself in a blanket from the couch
and go out. I know how the stand
of tall pines sounds in a wind like that.
Beneath them, I listen, sway and
hum as they moan. Long trunks creak
like ancient ships, branches sigh low, sigh soft
and needles crunch underfoot as
I remember: Neruda says, “Night wind spins
in the sky and sings.” He’s right;
in the steeple of my yard-pines
the winter keens,
its hymn cold, wondrous, and fine.
about the author
Ron Rollins is a writer, editor and painter in addition to being a husband, father and grandpa. He lives in Kettering and has only recently gotten around to sharing his poetry.