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in april the berg winds blow
hot from northern deserts
carrying sage brush
and buchu breath
it sweeps the forest clean
drying off the old wood
shriveling gentle tendrils
too late to reach for light.
preparing the pulsing forest
for the teeth of winter cold.

and i, oblivious
to gold leaf warnings,
have let my heart run wild
entangled with green gush growth
and soft translucent blooms.
at night in sleep i hear that windsong
a two note of bitterbos
and the bigness of sky
screeching down the mountain
singeing over hills
and shift-sand dunes
to cool old desert voices
in the waiting southern sea.

in autumn the bergwind blows
hot dry from faraway deserts
sweeping through my tangled spaces
and deep leaf litter of words unsaid
preparing me for season’s turn
and the quiet of the trees.

it is heartwood that lives the winter
and new buds that make the spring.


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