The wind that bends the pin oak to the bedroom glass,
that pries my porch roof jagged from the torn flashing
to betray how little stands between me and rain, will be
your wind tomorrow. Moving east in gales, it’s bound
to whip up whitecaps on your Atlantic; to lash the flags
along the boardwalk till they clang, metal grommets
and snap-locks against metal poles; to tangle the kites
aloft beside the Henlopen. The bench we sat on will be
spackled in salt. Dune grasses will buckle and succumb.
That wind will have to suffice, will have to be my envoy.
If it whines against the eaves that cover your sleep, agitates
the composure of Silver Lake and the inlet, my bidding
will be done. If it whistles in window cracks as you drive
Route 1 past the Great Marsh Preserve, or cries down
Broadkill Road until you reach the end, and then draws in
a ragged breath to let it out against your ear, the dumb pulse
of your throat, there will be no need for me to break my word
or utter one. There will be nothing new that I could add.