African American Poetry (1870-1928): A Digital Anthology

Mae V. Cowdery (Mae Cowdery), "The Wind Blows" (1927)

The Wind Blows
By Mae V. Cowdery

The wind blows.
My soul is like a tree
Lifting its face to the sun,
Flinging wide its branches
To catch the falling rain,
   To breathe into itself a fragrance
Of far-off fields of clover,
Of hidden vales of violets,—
The wind blows,—
It is spring!

The wind blows.
My soul is like sand,
Hot, burning sand
That drifts and drifts
Caught by the wind,
Swirling, stinging, swarting,
Silver in the moonlight.
Soft breath of lovers’ feet
Lulled to sleep by the lap of waves,
The wind blows—
It is summer!

The wind blows.
My soul is still
In silent reverie
Hearing sometimes a sigh
As the frost steals over the land
Nipping everywhere.
Earth is dead.
The woods are bare.
The last leaf is gone.
Nipped by death’s bitter frost,
My youth grown grey
Awaits the coming of
The new year.
The wind blows,—
It is winter!

Published in Opportunity, October 1927

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