J. E. June
A Restful Odor
The winds of thought tumble words a c r o s s
my mind like Autumn leaves,
whirling them around to pile up against my cheeks.
Who can inherit winter snow to pack them down,
provide a roof for the mouth,
and shelter them from the tongue,
when wisdom is a mute signing with nebulous digits?
The subtleties of possibility are effortless clouds,
so I rake them free from my cheeks,
and set them smoking at the curb.