Into the Wind
I walk downhill and lean into the wind.
It is and isn’t the first time. Hour, weather,
errand all proclaim Now and Again.
Late comes the sense that all will go on without us,
late the undoing. When it’s all undone,
still winter sunset bleeds across the sky
coldly unfurling alpha and omega,
ending and origin. The wall of winter
still stands behind the mists
of our preoccupation,
still lingers in our speech.
Patterns of thought run deep.