From this High Window

From this high window
the invisible wind
moves silent trees:
motion without sound,
dance without song.

Behind painted walls
and heavy curtains,
I cannot not hear
the tumult,

but opening the heavy door,
at last I hear the trees sing,
stirred to passion
by unseen hands
waving branches
swept up
by the compelling wind

and drawn outside,
exposed and complete,
finally I face the clear maelstrom,
my own hair flying free,

and gaze at the trees,
wild men
dancing as they chant
savage hymns
to their howling god.