The Rest of the Sign Was Blank

The waves the wind sends
On the cold pond spray

Like lives, like plants, blooms,
Time-lapse grown great oaks.

There’s a calm, a call
From the next huge gust

High in the grey hills,
And then fans of waves

That change grey to blue
To white, white to lights

That go grey, then blue,
And then dark. Next gust.

It’s a small, quick thrill
Each time the next wind

Blows and the waves race
Their groves of crossed lights.