the back burner

Changes

There's a wind in the myrtle,
swinging slender branches gently,
passing through and passing on
to swing some other tree.

Brine is in my hair and on my porch,
collecting softly on the cars,
falling from a homeless wind now
sighing from the western sea.

Iron railings, utility poles,
and mailboxes feel sediments
sink deep into their crevices,
and curse the wind that comes and goes.

The breeze will pass away, although
I cannot wash the trees and trucks
nor make the wayward wind
take back our second skin of salt.