She's kinder than you might think,
the great Wind on high.
At these breathless heights,
most turn to broken icicle thoughts,
to hailstone songs,
but not she.

Listen.

Can you hear her weeping warmly,
goddess-mother-princess she, all
streaming cirrus tresses
moved by springtime stratus voice?

Listen.

Her tears are the joyous chills
that will take your heart like a bell
and ring it with silver remembrances.