Weather I

The barren grasses
lank and soft, stir
in the gentle air.

The indoor plants 
stand tall and green, 
the carriage clock between

them and the outside air. This 
blowing, always blowing
dusts cobwebs off

the garden pole, out there
on its own, up
to its knees in flowing hair. 

Suddenly the wind has dropped,
the grasses still, there is 
a pause of breath, a hush 

of silence settles
and we wait for we 
know not what to appear.
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