The Wind

“you are perfection,”
says the wind

pulling my leaves into
a ragged knot

sometimes gently,
sometimes with a gust
that shakes my roots
from the ground

and where is my force
to push against you
should I want to

you made me tall and
whip-like
to bend, flatten, arch, and spring back
throwing my very top
from sky to sky

and what is my form
but you
rearranging my twigs
to more quietly
pass through

still a whisper
under the steely roar

“you are perfection,”
says the wind