From “Wind Child”
They are individualists. They fly alone. Who wouldn’t
in autumn
like to rock and waver southward like an everblowing leaf
over and through forests and hedges,
float in the glades
sip the last nectar?
What a way to go, you make it, or you don’t, or the winds
snatch you away.
“Wind Child,” published in Another Kind of Autumn (Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1977).
Image Credit: John Britt | Flickr
