NEW! Poem by Anne Elvey

Anne Elvey

THE WIND

What hammers next door replacing stumps 
weighs on my frame, as voices measure work 
and a saw circles through a post to level things. 

The angels dance on leaf tips, their skirts churn. 
I keep the windows closed. The Bureau says 
the northwest wind will turn to the south. Stumps 

lie on the drive. Doors slam. A roof lifts, sudden 
as the air that balloons and buckles the fabric 
of a world. There are no cicadas, only a fury 

of angels brushing wings against the sky. 
Forget the past, they say, you cannot level your 
house; the wind is your heart’s hammer.