People in the Wind

　　by Margot Farrington

　　 Inside the wood stove the smith steadies，

　　 proclaims his alliance with flame as

　　 heat quickens his hammer. And the singer， at first

　　 inaudible， fashions her rising song from seasons

　　 stored within logs of seasoned cherry， birch.

　　 I have delighted in their concert

　　 winter days and nights， rapt before

　　 doors framed in brass， their

　　 glass etched with twin wreaths. Circles

　　 that focused wonders I am about to mention：

　　 livid saints and salamanders，

　　 paraphernalia of magicians

　　 performing-with blue fluidity-

　　 their act without their masters.

　　 And always before curtain， the casket

　　 split asunder， the thief's hand passing over unattainable gems.

　　 But now there are people in the wind；the chimney sucks them down. I hear the singer inhale a choir； voice of thousands.

　　 A purity of anguish to leave the listenerbreathless. The notes， the notes are inferno；

　　 the smith beats out a knell.

　　 Those ashes I spill tomorrow upon freshly fallen snow have already blown for days across the city.

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