So once again the morning wind shakes leaves—
brown and crisp paper maracas—to no
one's metronome. Crush and thrash, and a bit
of hiss-whisper. Something of danger in it.
Maybe. Something a bit too wild, although

I love the wind. In and out of all tree
limbs, through blades of grass and, it always seems,
fluting through the hollowed reeds of my ribcage—
a whittling of the spirit
to bright ribbons of prayer and joy. Once again
the day begins inside and out of me.            
And I am thankful to be here, frail leaf        
that I am, loving how the world pours itself
into me. I am rinsed. I am blent.


© by Paula Schulz.
Used with the author's permission.