The Wind Is Not Written
Wind whips the birches and firs
into ragged swells of leaf and gust
as though trees become a sea,
green waves rushing to crash the sky.
Branches scratch the windows.
A can clanks down the street
as this ocean above her surges
the words out of her head.
In this chapter, she's losing her voice,
the plot swept in the surf,
the ebb and crush of illness
dragging characters out of earshot.
If she had a boat that could ride
such bluster, she'd row,
glide on this hissing current
into the rumored spring.