Wind Poem by Michael William

1.
This wind is an error,
a cosmological mistake screaming
it shouldn’t be this cold.

The confused grass leans from
one side to the other.
The trees are tossed back and forth
like hair.

Above me, a bird struggles
to fly against the wind,
its wings flutter
like morning.

The bird can’t fly.
The wind is wrong.

I am alone.

2.
What reaches for me
is not a hand, is not a song turning
to flesh, is not a voice breaking into
a wing.

I am held by the rough skin
of evening,
and the winds
reach for my arms
like branches.

The sky is an open wound,
bleeding,

I am alone.