The poet, herder of winds, gives
to each a woman’s name: the
northern wind is heather, the flower
that stays and lasts in your ear;
the southern wind is daisy, which
each of us must choose, and belongs
to all and to no one when
it goes in through one ear and out the other;
the western wind is rose, which
glows but not for long, but still
pricks while it’s dying; the eastern wind
is violet, the one that lies with
the poet and gets up with the south-eastern wind,
painting the day in butterfly colours.