You already knew the wind speaks
in every language. Just listening
you feel dry bark scrap your skin.
You see thin trees, wood chips, green
leaves swaying in the cool air, bushes
shaking and bending, ant hills scattered
across the sidewalks or hidden beneath
yellow-petalled dandelions. As much
winter grass dances around their stems
as new grass sprouts today, yellow
in the yellow light. So the seasons cross
each other in the press of time.
On still days the silence carries
the wind's message. Without talking
you point to every needed sign. Your
eyes and mine look for summer's first day.
Daniel Brick
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-press-of-time/
