Some nights, she became the wind

and crept into other people's houses,

moaning and rattling window panes.

She lifted the owl high above trees,

eddied dust in barren fields.

 

Such a thrill to loop through fragrant

pines, to push waves so high

their tops frothed white. She made sure

windfall apples fed herds of deer

and milkweed seeds found fertile ground.

 

Less of her returned each morning.

What sorrow to inhabit flesh,

to feel the throb of gravity

and find milk, the newspaper,

children waiting at the door.