Are you trying to **** me with a windfall limb?
Help me fly a kite?
Push me down a city block even if I don’t want to go that way?
Will you blow my love to me?
Blow them away?
But thanks for making so much kindling available.

I often mistake those pin oak leaves
That you push across the road,
Now East, now West,
For skittering rodents,
Cute ones, terrified of being run over,
Like toads in a Spring rain.
Brown brittle leaves, done growing but still running.

You don’t care, you have no imagination.
Yet you can remove, by mindless bluster,
The common - all too common sorrow
From us thoughtful human fools
If we dare to face you,
Spread our quiescent wings,
And let go.