Wind Farm

I still remember the summer we were becalmed: No breezes rose. The dandelion clock Stopped mid-puff. The clouds stood in dry dock. Like butterflies, formaldehyde embalmed,   Spring kites lay spread out on the floor, starched flat. Trees kept their council, grasses stood up straight Like straight pins in a cushion, the wonky gate That used to bang sometimes, shut up, like that.   Our ancestors, that lassoed twisty tails Of wild tornadoes, teaching them to lean In harness round the millstone — the would weep   At all the whirlwinds that we didn’t reap. I lost my faith in flags that year, and sails: The flimsy evidence of things unseen.

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