WEATHERVANES & PAPER PLANES



Rain tap dancing on a tin roof,

the rusty staccato of toe and heel,

a weathervane stuck on West—

who needs prediction

when you are the prevailing wind,

the constant, neither light,

nor variable, a migratory bird

who comes back

year. after year. after year.

We stare at the horizon

& wait for the future

to arrive.

We reach for the sun,

as if our hands could hold fire,

as if it were a copper coin

& the night,

a bottomless well.

I wish.