The reed leans into the wind
as if listening for a secret,
an image which stirs the eye within
the eye within, and no less real
for the fact that it happened here
at a pine table in a suburban
kitchen with not a reed for miles,
but a pen poised over a scratch pad
leaning, steep, like a reed into the wind,
the children, buffeted to their rooms,
leaving the dog who’s blind and
sprawls at my feet, oblivious
to reeds that lean into the wind;
of all the creatures in the house
this beast knows the approaching storm
has no more froth than an ill-timed joke
for there is nothing — not you,
not me, not the force of gravity —
that can pull me away when
the reed leans into the wind.
