God is a wind that blows the leaves away,
and with the leaves, all we would not leave:
The hand that holds our own. The sweet play
of words. The haunting music we conceive.
God is a wind that blows the leaves away.
And out the window the garden will not stay.
Nor the cardinal for a moment on the limb.
All will have their winter and gainsay
the greenest summers that we wander in.
God is a wind that blows the leaves away.