Jennifer Angelina Petro
The wind said something
that mixed with the hum
of bees and distant lawn mowers.
What it said may have sifted through.
It may have touched my ever-listening.
Standing on the road, searching
the sky, I watch the way
trees sway and wave,
and a pause descends, like
a wish, except palpable, like
The message means
to find my spirit—wind woven
with wind. It seeks me, like
the fragrance of freesia seeking
There is work to be done. I know
that much. What it is
is a ribbon drifting, lifting away.
So many missteps have befallen
the road. So many turns missed.
So many dead ends, which, in all
actuality, do not exist. Nevertheless,
I strive to listen, to get it right. To breathe
what the wind said, hoping
the message will nuzzle its way
through my body, caressing
desire, and once again guide my steps
to many unexpected