This is the wind that blew in uninvited;
a stray note, wafted from the car in front,
I followed it home, that hand uncurled lightly
through the passenger window,
conducting the planing air, smoothing
Frail as crepe paper, yet cured by a touched care.
Look, what this sound could be:
in the strange concert of night, unseen friend,
a warble as you career around the bend.
But what then. Should the note ever end?
Of course, but by its longitude,
and in its own time, veer
out of its frequency cage by many scales,
and drawn long down dark roads, to here.
So I worry less about those things.
But what of the birds, who ceaseless call
from morning, until the night sing.
They too will be gone,
when dawn is at her tapering end.
That is the sweet spot, brief, and unobserved.
But then, what of my love, who strings
fervent at the end of the world?
Then I should find her,
and all that's held,
And in the folds of finding,
a great garland brocade
will be unfurled.
