Gayle Michaels: Certification

For Gayle
A Poem by John Berry:

Sand between our toes, we see sun-fire bring dawn-light from the Gulf.

You taste salt sea breeze from life’s Mother redolent with fresh life-smell.

But you are essence as much as the four.

We hear the oak leaves whisper prophesies.

But only you hear the words of them, though I own my soul as much as you yours.

The Norther blows its purple-black sky-bruise, laced with lightning, spreading toward us.

The wheat-waves dance in time to the wind-chimes.

The Scots piper purs his second wind into his pipe-bag.

Another breath winds through a French horn, as a free breeze blows straight across Aeolian pipes, then rising wind moves limbs as well as leaves.

The hurricane blows rain straight level, mixed with paper, leaves, and food-scraps.

Then cyclones add walls and roofs, and cars.

As your breath voiced sweeps clear man’s trashing, it is not chance your name is Gale.