Winds From Mars (Poetry)

A wind blows in from far away —
not Africa or Spain —
it has an old, familiar feel
that’s hard to place or name.

And carried on each sighing breath
are scents both sweet and strong —
the ghosts of forests rarely dreamed
and fragrant walks among

other hills on other worlds
in other times than these
and all night long it whispers on,
as though to taunt and tease

and keep me from sleep’s soft cocoon —
I lie awake and hark
to voices speaking other tongues
from somewhere in the dark.

They stir a passion from the deeps,
a half-forgotten love
that rises, urgent, like a fish
seeking air above.

Imagination gasps and drifts
in currents, tugged along,
caught up in recollection’s flood,
homesick for a song

fluting on the very edge
of what I strain to hear —
an interplanetary wind
passing, sphere to sphere

and mourning ancient cities lost,
empty worlds long-dead —
now dust and sand bourne on hot winds —
a phantom swirl of red.