Doxa 8: Forbearance

Wind—unlike the likely droughts
and stubbled summer lawns,
or the cicada’s tymbal cry;
unlike the absolute emptiness
of fields under snow at night
with their highways like blue stitches;
unlike the austere Cooper’s hawks
perched upon fence posts
and splintered billboards—wind
was the one thing she refused
to abide: how it lashes the prairie,
the porch swing, the sky, penetrating
even the slightest cracks of her
worn house, her worn face.