The Coming of a Thousand Leaves

Stirring winds carry lies to an immovable village,
wide as the stars in the Big Dipper above. There
spins a cyclone. I see it swirling in revenge, 
whipping up the garments, the tresses;
I see it slice the skin with wicked dust. 
It trails ever stronger, it speaks
in fragments like a dying fowl. 

A complacent people will wail;
a complacent people will ostracize their best.

The winter winds are white and wide as the alpine snow, 
and I watch them bluster in riddles, unfinished clauses;
they are children of a tightening atmosphere.
They speak to one alone amongst a world of sighs.

A complacent people will wail;
a complacent people will cast out the resting place.

To the coming of one thousand leaves 
plot the biting winds; to cut, to bury, to loose. 
They ring out from unstoppable breath, and in a still, 
secluded hollow, floats a choice.