--Jonathan K. Rice
This is where grandmother,
her body fat with magic,
stopped the north wind blowing.
She climbed into the wind
like it was a tree,
her breath one big pump inside her,
and the leaves climbed
stairways through the air.
She rode around with the wind all day,
a wild bird on his shoulder,
leaves and vines not letting
one another go.
Wind, wind, silent
in the way of howling dogs,
blowing in the blue
head of the sky,
empty your buckets
full of Sundays,
shake down a river of apples
so baby’s cradle can fall.
The crackling hangs there
in the quiet
chanting of the air.
Darkness deepens into crows.
NORTH WIND BLOWING
This is where grandmother,
her body fat with magic,
stopped the north wind blowing.
She climbed into the wind
like it was a tree,
her breath one big pump inside her,
and the leaves climbed
stairways through the air.
She rode around with the wind all day,
a wild bird on his shoulder,
leaves and vines not letting
one another go.
Wind, wind, silent
in the way of howling dogs,
blowing in the blue
head of the sky,
empty your buckets
full of Sundays,
shake down a river of apples
so baby’s cradle can fall.
The crackling hangs there
in the quiet
chanting of the air.
Darkness deepens into crows.
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