a low gray sky quickens into turbulence
as it yearns to refresh parched earth
and poems are yearning and
turbulence and I’m oddly parched
and blown about in a dithering wind
and I long to rise to windless heights
above the clamor of seasons
above my portion here
rooted in turmoil and muddle
the wind batting me about
telling me it’s best somehow
to grab my hat, bear down,
turn into the wind, stand rooted in the
ancient wisdom of ancient bewilderment
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