Wind Instruments
By: Andrew Boden
How many winds I’ve watched
stir the fir trees
to this movement, limbs pump
up and down, gyrating
great, green fans in
a semaphore I cannot read.
And never shall, the old arborist
whispers. It is the wind singing
through the throats of trees,
the sibilant call of a lover
to her lost beloved.
Listen, listen.
Her breath presses a bough
to my lips. Hush world, shush you
Babel-din. Hush you chorus of self.
In our stillness blooms the secret bower.
Here sings the wind, hear in this
heartwood, hear our harmony.