The barren grasses lank and soft, stir in the gentle air. The indoor plants stand tall and green, the carriage clock between them and the outside air. This blowing, always blowing dusts cobwebs off the garden pole, out there on its own, up to its knees in flowing hair. Suddenly the wind has dropped, the grasses still, there is a pause of breath, a hush of silence settles and we wait for we know not what to appear.next poem