Winds of Sue

Would we know you're dead, Sue,

seeing your picture there in Colorado,

smiling from under your broad-brimmed hat?

Your body, seared to elements,

ashes on a lake, has no heft,

has no shape, makes no sound.

There's a memory--a story, a posture,

a laugh, an eyebrow crook'd--

more like wind than reality.

Tufts of wind, unseen, tousle our hair,

gusts of wind shudder the leaves of trees,

rattle windows, gales of wind

howl around corners, chill our skin,

blow the dust in our eyes

we might blame for our tears.

Even unseen

one feels wind's being

even as we feel yours.