Wind Blowing Backward

Sadness turns stiffly in a slow circle
And settles again, an old dog in its bed.

For all the stories that I tell, there is still
The ruthless scour of time. I am getting older.
And these discontents will still be here
When they're overtaken by the discontents
Of nursing homes and broken hips.

The wind is blowing backward today
From summer into winter.
Love grows in the spaces between maple leaves,
In the quiet interstices of the mind,
In the hollows between my fingers.
It grows in the lungs
Between the inbreath and the out.
It grows in the shadows of blades of grass,
In the dark of closed junk drawers,
In the pockets of coats that disclose
Unexpected shells.