A Mouthful of Air

Oh wind of a thousand faces, which becomes Wisconsin truly?
Is it the greening time of May when your gentleness
Wafts the matchless perfumes of blooming trees and flowers,
Or when your Southern aspect resonates Sapphos' Aeolic voice?

Is it in the hot summer days of August when Sirius of the stars
Rules and the sunny heavens force your absence, and gravid is the air
With listless vapor, and when you other scenes delight
As we wait for you and Canada's cerulean sky and woolly clouds?

Is it in the fall when the days are dark with fog and mist,
When melancholy and memory like the incubus enter the soul
Leaving a residue of bittersweet loss and longing
When seductive nostalgia rules with its woeful tyranny?

Is it in winter when you bring the unwelcome snow and Zero,
When terrible gales shred the sea apart into foam,
When you are least tolerated, and when we seek escape
From your bone chilling tantrums, seeking the coming of Spring?

Oh wind of a thousand faces which becomes Wisconsin truly?

Copyright 1999 by John Faragher

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