A Gust of Wind

A plum drops onto concrete

next to my lawn chair 

This tree, the one that sheds every August making jam

for the honey bees, 

was that you 

or the wind? 


I walk the park’s path, 

red cardinal in the branches. 

A bouquet of cigar and roses swirl into my nostrils. 

An unexplained fragrance

speaks to me through wind. 

You see, the plums had me thinking 

about the way you were sometimes: 

A confetti storm of doves, ribbons and firecrackers produced from thin air.

Was it you 

who startled me?


I look to my side. 

Street performer nearby, 

a magician tossing scarves, 

Past the fountain only pups, children and hand-holders.

Enveloped by silence, I hear the howl of your laughter

when your sides really ached

and your face turned beet red.

So distant. 


I lament the twinkle in your eyes 

also had 

a half-life. 


Whisper without words, show me you are 

present, please. 

I can only make sense when 

you are near me. 

Nothing gets in between Papi and his favorite. 

Even death. 


Curl of the wind around my shoulders

and neck, tussling my tresses.

You play with my hair and

brush my cheek. Your gusts assure me to go on.


“Go on,” You urge, go on. 

I am content to accept 

you are one shade away from turning me 

into a believer. 

though in life you hardly were. 



and the morning breeze. 

Are you here? 


-Jane Lake


I am a former reporter for the Chicago Tribune and a published poet often reading at Poets House. More information is available at www.dabadelic.com.