The Wintergarden lll
Toys of the wind,
which, by the way, has shifted from the east
and ushers from the west
now-a very little thing-the least
that you should worry on or mind.
It sends the birds way southward-ways,
tumbling, helpless, wishing they were there
already. There? Where? We can only guess-
the Floridas that they alone know best.
Somewheres, a distant horn is blowing
Not one, I mean, from a parked car
but the sparkling, gleaming, brassy, braying kind,
valved and belled
bellowing a line
informed by rhythms, melody;
I wish I knew from where-
alas, the ear
is not so wondrous as the eye
for fixing where things
issue from;
somewhere a horn is blowing-
the cornucopia of un-knowing,
call it, summoning, enjoining,
'Drop what you're doing, ' it would sing,
'pay attention to the change I bring.'
Summer does, and to the Year
'bye' bids, bye, farewell, I must be going.'
poem by Morgan Michaels
Added by Poetry Lover
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