Fresh Breeze    

    by Jess Morton


Lull in the first winter storm
a November gale and gray
gusts whip over the village green
spurring the golden leaves at our feet
and they scatter over wet pathways
beneath the swaying limbs of sycamores.

You had said this was your weather
and I can see you watching me
as I read aloud on the park bench
its wood slats unfelt through the armor
we wear against wind and rain
the words gusting from my tongue.

The storm will pass and the words blow
through my memory, with your eyes
still close enough to know what love is
in the myriad ways two may be one
with the leaves chattering past
in the driving wind before rain.