There are days when the trill of winter’s wind
rattling high up in the trees,
sending their stoic arms and ribs into weaving motion,
is enough to open your heart,
to quicken its slackened pace,
make it hum with the wind’s rhythmic breath

On days when your heart’s beat sloughs off with rain,
and the burdens of a world
that has little mind for the harmonies
of swaying elms and maples,
you would do well to remember that somewhere
the wind is conducting his dancers in a minuet,
and that some heart, composed of identical matter,
aching for the same lovely clarity,
is applauding so loudly
the trees and the winter wind
are compelled to bow and curtsy
before clearing their throats
for yet another encore