While the Wind Rages

The wind blows through the quarry with a moan,
as if the world is in agony, which, if we are honest, it is.
It is a low moan, once a rare thing,
but it is the second time this week the howl has filled our ears
as it blows every incidetal item to the next county,
chairs, gutters, the Mexican curtains that created your private place
in the midst of a world without romance.
The neighbor’s yard has that post hurricane look,
all we need is the News 7 truck complete with microphones
and an eager young reporter speaking breathlessly,

I avoid the headlines, which make our little confligrations
seem anemic. Hate and lies and wars and headlines
that remind me just how far we have drifted from the idea
of love, Except perhaps in the novels and Hallmark movies
and memories of our first flashes of love, forgetting somehow
that love is something more perfasive, but no, we are too busy
chasing headlines and each other and leaving our God
in the attic to be pulled out when all else fails.

Which it will. It always does. The best empires are always built
on tolerace and a sense of sharing, and they die on the altar
of selfishness and anger. It does not matter if it is nations
or the person across the table in the morning, Kindness raises,
Anything else destroys and leaves us with empty empires,

A lot of thought early in the morning, as I look across the table
at you, your hair askew, up early with a steaming cup
In your hands, a reminder of the power of love to preserve
and lift up and generate a smile while the wind rages

About this poem

So we are having the second brutal windstorm in a week here in West Pawlet. I set about to write a poem about wind and configration, and ended up with a love poem. Tells you where my head is

The picture was take in the quarry across the road.

Tom

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PS: This poem won a prize from Poetry Universe, a site of 57,000 + poets and readers