By Su Shafer
The sound of wind is cold – gray waves, frigid and broken,
rushing up a Northern shore.
It’s a hollow sound, like a flute without music.
An echo undying. Emptiness longing to be filled.
A mournful wail unanswered. The despairing lamentation
of invisible hands searching, sweeping ahead blindly.
Dry leaves scuttle sideways like old crabs on stick legs.
They rattle their empty claws at its passing,
then lay still.
Su Shafer is a creative writer and sometime poet who lives in the Pacific Northwest, where flannel shirts are acceptable as formal wear and strong coffee is a way of life. There, in a small Baba Yaga house perched near the entrance to The Hidden Forest, odd characters are brewing with the morning cup, and a strange new world is beginning to take shape . . .