The wind is worried today,
restless spirit, touching here
unable to decide if he has whipped this landscape
enough for penance
or defrocked that tree sufficiently
that her completely bare and naked shape
is intimately acquainted with his touch.
He has knit his brows together in the clouds
concern an ever deepening wrinkle
that perhaps the work is not done
and never is.
So he strikes again, and Again, and AGAIN
at the weary world, as if to subdue it.
The sea fights back
with angry white swells that batter boats
as if to subdue them
and the boats bang the docks
as if to subdue them.
The work is not done.
And no one is free.