TO THAT HEART AT PLAY

One listens

To the tune of your heart

A wind instrument

Beating strange rhythms

Palpitating

At the rupture of sight

Blazing funnel of torturous  thoughts

You keep your fingers

On the sides of your forehead

And feel the pulsation in the blood vessels

One knows

That you are forever sculpted in the wind

Leaves gathered and taken up in a spiral of churning air

And thrown asunder

Blossoms bending to the song

That brews the wind in its kettle

A chord fastened and played in the churning

Upon which your fingers play erratically,

The flame of woe

The blare of nonchalance

A blue that flows through the veins

Another wind, entering uninvited

Ballooning, blossoming

Plays on banishment

A turning of the leaves, mystically,

Even.