In Another Season

South wind shivers the leaves
an anxious relief from summer’s heat,
and the moon fights a thin cover
that might, in another season, be a storm.

Bushes groan laments
against the splintered fence,
and grass blades whisper so quiet
you stoop closely and do not hear it.

The man wonders: do enemies yet live?
Every liar is a mirror
and every friend what I want,
so perhaps I should wonder,
do friends yet live?
Is there a language more vague
than friends and this wind?

She has traveled with this man
where brown fields are truth of mid-day heat
and wondered how she truly knows one who
smiles through words so difficult to say.
Do distant oaks stand a line of cool?
Or, like thunderheads over mountains,
offer relief but deliver pressure?

They live life like the gap in foot falls,
longing to hear a word that is substance,
yearning to be in rise and fall cave of winds
where close marches the beat of motive.

But the south wind blows through the screen
a channel of breath between two backs in bed.
The anxiety of trees is music for dreaming.