A Poem by Joanna M. Weston

do I rant of goldenrod and roses
broken by thunderous clouds?
and will rain answer with whispers
dripped from bare twigs?

rather I bend into a shout of wind
catch the sting of words on my skin
run for the shelter of a wall

where I murmur to a coming shower
of green and rising flowers
that know the urgency of April
and the weep of winter’s end.