Where the Wind Lives

This is the wind’s home.
It does not belong to you,
or to the house you built,
or to the little trees you
planted in the yard
with their neat, circular borders.

The wind cracks branches
that plummet to the ground,
gouge the grass,
sprawl flat and lifeless.
Hanging pots and wind chimes
writhe and twist,
ring and clamor,
strain at flimsy chains.

The wind moans and screams
and howls; and the house
creaks, doors banging shut,
shutters whipping
against the windows,
and small bits of shingled roof
fly off, join the wind,
scoot down the yard,
slap against the fence.

Later, people open their doors,
wander onto the lawn,
slowly pick up debris,
drag out a ladder
to fix the roof.
They think the wind is gone.
The wind, meanwhile,
does what it wants.

about the author
Kathy B. Austin describes herself as a Buddhist, half-hippie tree-hugger who enjoys biking, Dharma Center activities, artistic pursuits, and talking to crows. Her poems have been published in numerous journals including Mock Turtle Zine, and have been read on Conrad’s WYSO.