the wind is crying

marek szymanksi

the wind is crying
peering tight and lonely
through every crack and opening.
blindly finding its way -
feeling for the little spaces
where its curling silver breath fingers
can reach with soft cold claws
inside those gaps
and tongue lick
cleave its way
past the doors and rattling windows
to the guttering
blue-yellow leaf of light
where the candle's
keening
knife-edge
of waxy smoke
kisses the little dancing flame.

sgl