The Wind Song
Arvilla Fee

A simple oasis
lies in the planks of my back deck,

half-shaded by a thirty-foot oak;
it’s here I can linger over hot tea,

close my eyes, allow the wind
to lift my hair and run its fingers

through the long silver tubes
of butterfly windchimes;

the tinkling notes float in the air
like a thousand downy feathers,

swirling around my face
as I turn toward the morning sun

warm with possibilities.