The Wind

The wind corrugates the pond
And strafes out a texture to this day:
Dry and wild and northerly it
Lifts up loosened leaves
Late to this dance
Then drops them back without a care
And so they sink and cascade down to
Where the light is liquid thick.
They slumber in this graveyard bed
So mired in winter’s long nights pace
Waiting for the southern breeze

Waiting cold and still.