The East Knows Nothing

The East Knows Nothing

(“Then He said to them again, ‘Peace to you! Just as the Father sent Me forth so I send you.’” John 20:21)

The east wind knows nothing of the west
until it arrives with sands from the gorge
and dust from the sleeping grain in the fields.
Yet it scatters its cargo along the way,
shore slough and yard,
against the custom
of westerlies off the coast.

Bent into the breeze that eases overcast lockdown, the river
waves butterfly downstream livelier than the silent fog.
Swept along its face, long for two days after ten of rain,
the east wind knows nothing of the west.

Here we stand, not bereft, yet uneasy about the change of weather;
what foreign flowers will bloom once the rains return, the gloom
we know famous, the pounding against the panes of
storms on the west wind’s claws?

But the day of east brings a day of sun
too early; winter will not depart so easily.

The east wind knows nothing of the west
but early greets our eyes, (to tease?), to bless
a morning blue and bright, a night black and shine;

the reminder of longer days and dry that,
for now,
refund our winter waiting.