When I was a small boy with weak legs
Trying to pilot my adult-sized tricycle,
A three-wheeled bike with a basket in the back,
Suitable for portaging groceries or siblings,
I hated the wind. It was hard enough pedaling
That damned cumbersome thing, but it was
Almost impossible heading into the wind.
In canoes, too, the wind was a nuisance.
Unless it was exactly at my back, I had
To fight it to keep the boat pointed as I
Wanted. Trying to return to a camp or cabin
Across a windy lake alone in an aluminum
Grumman canoe could take all afternoon.
And yet I loved the howl of the wind around
The corner of a solemn house, still do.
I loved watching branches toss. Still do.
I loved the banshee bending white caps. Still do.
Why mention any of this, alone in bed
On a windy and wet, black wee morning
In Salt Lake, listening? Because it is the nature
Of all phenomena to be dual from any given
Perspective, dusk to dawn to dusk, because
No matter where a person stands or lurks,
The changing world that wraps itself around
Will bring, I guarantee, I promise, I swear,
Some gusty paradox of enchantment and despair.
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