Pine Wind

By Peter Halstead

All around the wood’s dark trees
For three hundred some degrees
               The world today is filled with wind
               As the winter snows rescind,
Leaving bare spots where the roots
Of lodgepoles plan their fruits;
               All around this budding world
               The roar of altitude’s unfurled,
Descended from some troubled shear
Or disturbance in the stratosphere,
               To test its strength against the tines
               And tunnels of our human pines
Until beneath the glowing sky
The air is one long blowing cry,
               As sun’s apocalyptic sound
               Moves closer to the dripping ground,
The solar system’s hissing birth
Fallen breezily to earth,
               The music of the spheres made flesh
               Where planets and their subjects mesh.

March 25th, 1999