the southern wind has kicked in
and by the sound of the creaks and groans
coming from the walls and windows,
it is trying its damnedest to be the big
bad wolf to my little stick house.
windchimes jangle wildly, flailing
themselves against the early spring front.
trees, newly blossomed, affronted by the tearing
away of their petals, bend and sway,
bowing into the wild air.
all the while, within the gale, I sit
still as the eye of a hurricane,
and the transmutation of flight.