All around the wood’s dark trees
For three hundred some degrees
The world today is filled with wind
As the winter snows rescind,
Leaving bare spots where the roots
Of lodgepoles plan their fruits;
All around this budding world
The roar of altitude’s unfurled,
Descended from some troubled shear
Or disturbance in the stratosphere,
To test its strength against the tines
And tunnels of our human pines
Until beneath the glowing sky
The air is one long blowing cry,
As sun’s apocalyptic sound
Moves closer to the dripping ground,
The solar system’s hissing birth
Fallen breezily to earth,
The music of the spheres made flesh
Where planets and their subjects mesh.