WIND PRAYER
 
 
 
 
       A friend writes: she is moving on,
       love is not enough.
                                     When gorges yawn
let her float lightly, spider borne on silk,
unwebbed, a single drifting thread. If talk

       bruises her, let all be still;
       contrariwise, if -- after all
the music -- silence hurts, let her hear (one
by one) the shaped notes rise into attention,

       emerge from chaos into chorus.
       Let her attend. Attend her. ... Is
anyone there? Only the wind: the breath
of the world, voice in its throat, updraft.