Peter Chapman Poetry

tree wind

into the things i've never noticed, this:

i'm at the pool on a warm Florida afternoon
in a fool's swoon, a long dear fool,
when a cloud comes between me and the sun
and just like that the sun's undone,
it gets cold and the wind comes up
and dances the palms to and fro,
then with the sun returned, it's warm and nice,
the trees swaying hishy-hush,
making me wild with what the unsaid say:

this could go on, the chill, the heat, the light the dark,
so always opposite of what it was

until, never moving, we know everything