Wind After Storm

The wind tears at the shutters
And rattles the doors.
The wind converses in many voices,
Low and reverberant.
The wind tosses the crows
Up the incandescent sky.
The gull teeters on the cliff’s edge
And plunges into the wind
Which bears it away.
The wind polishes the day
And dries the puddles
Remaining from the recent storm.
The wind hurls the waves
That spout iridescent spray
Into the moving air.
The wind tugs at my hair
And whispers in my ears.
It carries the scent of sun-struck pines.
“Fly”, it says. “You can fly.”

 Carol Tashjian