Preface:

The direction wind blows matters not

To the skilled sailor

If the water fighting back the hull should freeze

The ship will rest

To the orphaned chick

The wind is mother

If stillness guides young wings

The chick will sing

 

Summer:

Like the invisible hickory

smoke steaming and

snapping and slow

cooking salted bacon

skin hiss, stressed

coals sear flesh. First

through the surface then

the crackling pine cone will erupt in the furnace,

dense muscle mass and fat juices decoagulate

dripping the golden sweat dancing with the

steam of still-scorching palatable

pleasure. Droplets of moisture form

on the skin to cool oppose the eternal

inferno – not hell. The tickling wind of

summer follows foreign-feeling follicles

as the breeze-brushed bristles laugh like

the rocking horse chuckles time away

Back… Toc… Forth… Tic When the

log of hickory burns bright, corned

beef brisket back will blacken.

 

Autumn:

Earth’s bottom jaw noshes burnt chips

My toes’ teeth bite and grind the fallen autumn leaves

 

Winter:

the leaf into the white darkness of frost, the sun-grim

behind a gray sheet. Bite the ice.

You bite bone. But let winter wind

bite back. For she blow broken glass from a stone lung.

She comfort you beneath a sandpaper blanket. She

Slow

mighty river in flow. She

Bald

mighty maple. She

Sleep

the Mighty Bear. She

Bury

beauty under frozen dust of earth. Tear

stick to cheek, whistle louder than the weeping

of the leaf who forget the kiss of the sun.

 

Spring:

Mine golden first green as Frost melts away for youth

Wind whispers secrets. Listen to the voice of season