Winter wind shoves.
It tumbles me along like a leaf.
It’s December, when walkers require destinations.
This month nobody walks for fun.
The wind buffs me as if I were rough agate
Bobbing in a lapidary’s can of sand, smoothing me round as a cabochon.
Today’s gusts divide everything into three groups:
Immovable, swaying and blown away.
Blasts push to erase or at least erode me,
But I’m aimed toward a room where the air relaxes,
No longer calling attention to itself.
Take me behind a heavy door. I’m headed to
Air as warm as a lover’s bed and
The smell of pies.