THE WELCOMING WIND
At dusk, his steps are rough,
with a dry grace of
the spring is gone,
& forward is the march.
In the grinning breeze he stops,
faces the pressure, feels it, leans in,
pressing into the airy opposition:
the force, that strength of Time
which faces him
along the winding red walkway bricks
of the harbor.
In time, some bench may call &,
sitting down, he will face the sea, watching
the terns & spins of the gulls
as they follow the ships
to feast on ready meals,
tossed by the time-tossed,
the welcoming wind.