Gusts along the ridge line
fight free of the elm tops.
In our hall, my ancient aunt
shakes dry her huge umbrella.
Storm-tossed, on deck,
kept alert by the salt of stinging waves.
we catch the old stag still at the lick.
A south wind beats on us
so tenderly, so warm, so soft.
Her mixed drink is jungle-scented—
mangoes and bananas on the breeze!
Slow-floating in a flatboat;
on my neck, a zephyr’s shy brush.
Before our first kiss, your breath,
your hand, so light upon my cheek.
Storm front racing across the plain,
panicking the grasses, darkening the air.
The great flock of grackles
pirouettes into the setting sun.
– Denis M. Garrison