The sky shouted and the rose replied, unfolding early in the cold.
“Hold back!” I would have said, instead, I saw your ruffling hair, your pause,
wayless as a Cavalier without his king, turning a biddable ear to hear
where the wind might take him

And I, in middle age, having long known inalterable destinations,
whether the wind bit or sun shone, could not stop the winged beating
in the hollows of my body, as of chanticleers that so long confined,
mistake the dusk for dawn.

Writing poetry is for Carrie Weinberger a reach for tethers of awareness in the turbulence of the world. Education in visual art informs her poems, which have appeared in several literary journals, and she has been a nominee for the Pushcart Prize. She lives and writes in Carlsbad, California.