By Stephen Paden
The wind is cold today,
as it is most days on the plains.
A furious gale pushes dirt,
and sometimes shingles from the roofs of houses,
but the trees remain safe far away;
the frontier is mostly void of thick-rooted things.
This lonely expanse suffers the brutal force
for an extended time,
but there is something new in the wind today;
a smell, a faint voice, an occasional warm spot
like hot breath on my cheeks.
It is you;
it has to be you,
because the easterly wind
is blowing into the west now, over my face,
through my skin down to my bones,
brandishing your visage so completely.
But we shouldn’t trust the wind altogether,
Unless that wind brings you to me