The wind sounds
of flowers
plucked prematurely
from their sprouts,
yet to bud
in summer days
filled with cream,
and sun
fingers ripe
with rose

Too the wind sounds
of paper planes
folded
by cherub boys
now they cripple,
shrunken
by fingers
such that
whisper

Some say
never will
the wind sound
of heavy
bones
marrow filled
in cold;
of nightmares
silent
tears that flood
valleys lined
in gold

even the leaves
fingers
who tap
are filled not
in lead
but with the same
cream

Too from
this cream
grows tunes
sung dark
of dead
men
interned
too soon

from cream
does sprout
the smoke
that tickles
lungs
and quenches
their breaths
final

Too is this
cream
of flowers
in their
lightness
through which
does the wind
sound.