I waste for the wading,
the word-swim to catch
a meaning ripe enough
to hold me through the night.
My eyes unfocus in the middle
distance, somewhere caught
between the green and gray—maple
and oak on evening—floating
over frog-song in the dimming.
The wind speaks, but not to me.
The shadows here will flash
and swim with finches in the morning,
tawny gold or bright—fallen stars
on the lawn—as dandelion seed germs, dives
even now for life.
Perhaps tomorrow I’ll wake
and know what the wind meant.