Tepid Wind

This is a tepid wind, a wounded leak of acid 

wreaking havoc in the trees; there is no wit 
to it from where I see the leaves ablaze, all 
manic movement in erratic thrash of limbs 
and twigs, a crazy match of writhing space 
where sound it seems can orchestrate this 
dissonance effacing sanity, a searing heat 
displaces any sense of pending peace 

There’s roaring in my ears - just why it had 
decided that reminding me could serve the 
greater good, fey suggestions that perhaps 
its best to irrigate this wood, loosing fruit to 
fated breezes sent to plague an indolence 
which prefaces a pedant hurricane... 
© 1 October 2013, I. D. Carswell