The wind — sudden, sodden — late winter’s cursive

by February Evening
     translated by Dana Golin

The wind — sudden, sodden — late winter’s cursive.
Earnest gusts push the passersby toward each other,
cigarette smoke leaps from the lips and instantly retracts, having
scraped
Nature’s raw nerve.  A match struck lit
by some miracle in a dark garden, and finally
the saving grace of a tea kettle hissing on the kitchen stove,
cups of tea shared between family.  The dear ones’ clothing
matches their voices — free-flowing.  Bare branches
shake and swivel, whereas the steam from the kettle
rises to the ceiling, all but
Immobile.