The Sighing Season

How is it that there is no poem
The Sighing Season

There must be…

…and I want to read it.

Find me this poem,
go through all the pages
survey every link
until you find the words
that measure this wind
which comes and goes
until you find the verse
that gives a new name
to old leaves
and brings warmth
to this
the slow exhale
of moths and late streetlights
firework ash
and seeds split
now sodden
with the grasses bent low
and damp gold
waiting for this full moon
like their grandmothers
waited last year.

Find me the poem
that is named for a breath
taken mid-month
under the trees
gone resting
and let me read the words
that tell of taxi lights
too bright at the corner
and the sad clatter
of stop signs
the weight of coats
the press at the ditches
in the brace of crossed arms.
Smiles turned to flinches
in this wind that…
and goes.

This poem exists.
I know it does.
I can feel it out there,
passing by the windows,
somewhere in the dark…
and it is not sighing.
It is whispering
like laughter,
or laughing
like a whisper.

Where is it?

Who wrote it?

Did she use the words well?

Did she capture a sigh?

Is there really anything to say?

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