City Wind

This wind which stumbles down the street with me,
The soot and grime so gooey upon its face,
Knows well the intricate and lovely lace
Of spider weaving and each day may see
Still beauty carved in stone or tapestry
Of dust and sun in some wall-centered space.
When evening comes it may seek out a place
Of blazing light or darkened mystery.
But does this dull, sophisticated thing
Remember still the free, mad way to go
Across a mountain top or how to swing
From larch to spruce and bend a tall pine low?
Does it remember-and when street lamps flower
Climb longingly to some tall city tower?

GILEAN DOUGLAS.