Wind in Things
Flutes at the edges, pries at these.
Instructs trees on suppleness, branching.
Once–when I was young–sent
me sailing.
Afterward, I stayed young a while
and remembered that.
Buoyancy, the way it frothed over.
Clouds. Air. Spume.
Nancy Christopherson lives and writes in Eastern Oregon. Her work appears or is forthcoming in The Leaf, Hawaii Pacific Review, Helen, Peregrine, Third Wednesday, Verseweavers, and Xanadu. Visit nancychristophersonpoetry.com.
