Like a Lion

What has the wind to offer
when it comes barreling in like March
on a January morning?

Without the sap of spring in their veins,
barren, rigid trees
shriek at its pronouncement

Even the brick walk sweats,
straining every muscle to keep order
as gusts taunt the mortar to break free

Only the cedar is supple enough
to be reeled around the meadow
like a maiden swishing her green petticoats

What has the wind to offer
when it comes barreling in like March
on a January morning?

Ask the chimes
as they are whipped into spasms of ecstasy