The so and many ways to sing the breeze,
whether it is breath or breathed,
or hummed in trees unleaved,
bison-heard on plains or high crested seas,
it is wind that rattles here - here upon the eaves.

Church bells are not pealed, but pushed
as chimes hung from the porches of time,
piped and true turbulent - these random tines
of a taking - chattered on a window,
scraped on a pane, loose-glazed and limed.

And whether we praise or for that matter pray,
wind don't speak my name, don't gust me down,
to each and all a song, pitched as a gale or a brief
unsettled sway, slack as linen and sung that way.