Wind Blown

Wind Blown

by me

Praise be to God for tumbleweeds

that cross the roads like twirling tops,

for swaying fields of golden seeds,

for ships with sails that swell and swap,

the flapping flag above the iron chain,

the swivel of the rusty weathervane.

Praise be to God for drifting garbage cans;

they cross the street and hit the neighbor’s car,

and plastic sacks are torn from hands,

(and chasing hats looks so bizarre),

the clothesline sheets careen and whirl,

they flutter and sway like skirts that twirl.

Praise be to God for angled windmill blades

that cut across the bloody evening sky,

and kites are hopeful renegades

they heave at strings and want to fly,

and trees applaud with pokey palms,

the air and wood are singing psalms.