Wind Poem by Leslie Philibert

There are winds out there, they cause the windows and doors to move.
They have their own language.
This is not as easy as stealing from the blind.

As I walk through forests the trees seem to move behind me.
The splittered woood has not been made into books.
The muddy path pulses, a second birth.

This is not real, these are things inside of me,
ice on branches, sleet on frozen ground, words as rain.
They circle around me like cold, brown leaves.