Against the clouds, skeined on a shuttling sky,

I see the trees dismiss their roots and fly.

Birds shoot the air's white rapids and are tossed

upon the roofs of distance where they're lost.

Stone houses creak and groan as if they'd run.

Steeples topple up.  Clouds race the sun.

In clouds of dust the pavements roll away.

March!  is the month's command and all obey.

A woman passes, clutching at her hair

and leaning back that pride might walk upright.

Her skirt blows into wings.  Her hat takes flight.

She bends, is snatched upon the running air--

and disappears in puffs of vexed surprise.

I watch her until the distance hurts my eyes.

The wind takes all; all goes before the wind.

We must rebuild this fleeting world within.

 Copyright 2010-2012 Paul Petrie