Who needs good eyes to see how close the sun comes?
The ridges of our brows suggest we know
the truth.  Trees, with their waving arms, shout, No,
look out!  But that’s because the wind shakes them
from side to side and strips them of their lives.
Or makes them out to be saints, bearing gusts
and blows, which we know like a child knows
his mother’s chides and always asks, Please, more.
And she, who would give everything, refuses
this time.  It is the wind that causes us
to shine and polishes our sharpest edges.
And though we haven’t arms to bear or beg,
we look like penitents, a brotherhood
of monks, who offer thanks for being poor,

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