Turning East on Hill Street, heading home.
Wind chimes sound along the way.
It blows as it will. I can’t make it happen,
can’t stop it, can’t tell it to go somewhere else
or keep it from gusting all around the neighborhood,
tipping trash cans and rattling branches.
Above, sunlight traces a too-brief arc in winter sky,
seeing, warming, cleansing, for a moment,
the faces of the just and the unjust.
Here the wind whips cold, there silence suddenly marks its absence,
but the Sun is out, the air is alive,
and I am breathing deeply.