Voices of desert ghosts
It frets, it spins, it howls, it moans,
and as it calls, it slips, it stalls,
drops paper bits and dusty sand—
lost castoffs on my windowsills.
It fills up holes and covers dogs
barking anxious at the bleats
and creaks of swingsets in the dark,
and blankets lawns and garden seats.
It’s born, then dies, and then reborn,
and picking up anew with leaves
with flowers clutched in ghostly hands,
it dies and drops them and retrieves,
then madly whirls down alleyways
and skitters pebbles past the wall
where old folks sit and children play,
and strains of latin music call—
that on a calmer night might drift
from roof to roof through open doors—
tonight runs counterpoint and soft
to that discordant, windy score.
by Ginny Short
Editor’s Note: The personification of the wind in this poem creates a moving tableau of imagery via rhyme and repetition.