I stood still within the Wind last eve,
Let Her fingers tease my hair,
And, through squinted eyes afraid of drying,
Glimpsed Her guessing She came from nowhere
(Yet from somewhere, lest I be lying).
And, lightly, She grasped me by the sleeve,
Heartened me to face the west,
Where, sourced beyond my long-shadowed arbor,
A mellow giant did seek His rest
In some recessed celestial harbor.
She whispered words of His taking leave,
Said my heart He’d not betray,
That, though faith with Him may, there, seem setting,
The dark must precede the light of day,
To mark the way for hope’s begetting.
The Wind, Her meaning was not to grieve
Nor to sorrow with me then,
But, giving Herself for a soft caress,
To promise that She would blow again—
Again and when I would believe less.