Words as Wind, and Wind
       

Across the sound the sound
and soiled water whisked. What we miss we who live
late against the mountains, high desiccant,
we miss misery of a sort, we miss

wet seasonal surges. I have a gate here
and a wall and plants planted and a path.
I have a plan to ignore. I plant.
I seethe against the seed-eating avian,
I pluck beetles by hand to drown in soap.

What makes a garden is a gate. What makes
a gate is a fence—otherwise it is a trellis,
I do love a trellis, and a morning glory.

There was an early morning I was awake and the storm
had a name and the storm stopped, sudden as waking,
and I walked out to be there breathless but as if

being breathed myself, a wet wind from
a sleeping mouth,
and then the storm blew opposite
itself like passengers on a train talking.

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Copyright © 2018 Bin Ramke All rights reserved
from In Light Wind Light Light
Omnidawn
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission