Shout down the wind, grow
blue in the face for all it cares,
it’s easier just to wear a hat
or entreat every raindrop that falls,
but like hungry lions over a kill
you’ll never reach an agreement,
and negotiations will falter, soaking
into your shoes when another pair
would have been the better choice.
Trust the clouds. The flowers do.
No matter what chapter you’re on,
wind follows its own road, lays
claim before abandoning the jackets
and winter clothes and bounding
northward, before taking one last
deep breath and walking out
on the blossoming buds in the trees
and flowers struggling to erupt.
It’s a swift stream to swim against,
a one-way street with a vengeance
best left to play itself out alone,
for tomorrow begets tomorrow,
and step by step the rain will pass.