No turbines in the Sound yet

wind makes its presence

felt the old-fashioned way

my old Vic of a house

rocks and sways with gusts

blowouts of freed-up energy

Plants take up residence in

the safety of inside next to

hammock, porch chairs and grill

tables fend for themselves

bushes and shrubs wear Wilt-Proof

They call you Irene, odd

nom de guerre for a goddess

of peace––not so strange if

the idea of those outsize

pinwheels in the ocean inspire

your whirlwind outbursts as

we wait to say goodnight

In aria you sent a penned

Leadbelly soaring into dreams

he made your music his own

no strolls downtown for me

you’ve clinkered me with plants

— Brooks Robards