First Sunday of March

In the stillness of a March Sunday with no wind,
nothing is moving. A pearl gray sky promises
nothing except that in the absence of sun
the sky is not burning.

Plumy grasses stand listless.  Like fish out of water
they wait for the wind. A child’s red balloon
hangs its head. Only the mountains are oblivious,
their faces a blank slate.

With no plans for launching a new kite today,
I really don’t need the wind. Oh, sure, there is
a certain deficiency with nothing beneath the wings
and yes, I miss its song.

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