The wind smells like pepper tonight –

something to do with Halloween and

the weird inspiration of Grandma and

her old-country ragu.

The wind is wet tonight –

crying at her own disorder

and begging bursts of rain

to help her clean her room.

The wind is soft tonight

because she’s in love. Plumeria

and papyrus pant for the taste

of a rum-bloodied mai tai.

The wind is unafraid — Newtonian

apprehension outweighed by her love

of kites, and desire to taste lava

chased by cooling sea-foam shots.

The wind is solemn tonight, tugging at

the mussed skirt of a garden-center

St. Francis and making “If this, then that”

promises in a plaster of Paris alcove.

The wind is lusty tonight — breath

playing at pinwheel roulette and brushfire

bellows, and pushing relentlessly at the

groaning chains of Victorian porch swings.

The wind is magic tonight–

making puppet shows, whirlwinds

and old clapping hands using piles

of dry leaves and legerdemain.

The wind is tired tonight,

rasping out her smoker’s hack

in trashcan-lid Morse code amid

old and resinous pine branches.

The wind is lonely tonight–

her injured vanity keen to be

stroked with tales of lantern-lit

cotilions and flickering lighthouse vigils.

Tonight, the wind is.