Everyone has a heartache,
we know because we read poetry
in the wind-loud woods at the end of March
in a spiral of dead leaves and wild
vines swinging from circling crowns.
All this booming and creaking unnerve us.
We think constantly of going but
the wind has the voice of command
and the wind asks, Where?
and the wind asks, Why?
and the wind repeats,
Everyone has a heartache.
