THE SWIMMING WIND



The wind pushes
the goldenrod in six
directions, a sea of gold
waves running back and forth
in the field,

as shadows over my paper
and under my pencil do the same,
swimming over and under,
up and down,

all with the dry-moist sounds of
leaves and branches,
bending by the thousands,
touching each other in a kiss,

leaving, returning in a rush,

whispering

I love you,
goodbye,
I love you,
goodbye.