The flowers groan with the same heave
and pitch the wind has as it attacks
the wall we built. The wind throws its leaves
at delicate white petals as they fold together—
then they let out a private cry—
a warning that obeys what the world has
already understood: that our white petals
will always be invisible, virginal;
that we will always seem to kneel together
as night succeeds the day; that wind
overblows and bellows; that sea escapes
the beach, swept too clean…
All will listen whilst the water freezes the seasons
on this summer ledge, with winter’s harsh reasons.
All will listen: Whoosh.
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