The wind lives
A free voice
In and out
Of Boston Harbor.
It climbs across the bay,
Up and down city streets,
Whispering its secrets
Into each alley way,
Open door and window.
It pushes, pulls and tugs,
Rushing waves against wharfs,
Sculpting spray in handfuls,
And sending sailboats,
Sails hard tipped,
Slicing through
Whitecaps,
On their
Way out to sea.

 

You can see the wind,
On any summer’s day,
He shows his muscles
In gusts and blusters
Claiming
Rights to the Harbor,
The walks along the bay,
Around corners of city streets,
Even rushing down
Quincy Market alleyways.

In this July heat,
I watch him play
Out his games of tug,
Pull, twist, and shove
All morning and into
Noon of day
From the second story café.
He’s really decided
To be a “bully” today.
Drafting waves up
In storms of spray,
Muscling the waiters,
Lifting tables,
Washing over Water Taxi bows
And drenching tourists
In his games of play.
Even courageous sailors
Tip their sails
To obey the wind-
Captain of the day..

 

Tall, thin, blonde
She’s walking along the
Narrow block and concrete
Walk that follows
The curve of Boston Harbor’s
Eastern Bay.
Her long blonde hair
Blowing and whipping
In the wind’s play.
In ankle long skirt
And tong sandals,
She’s balancing
Atop the narrow ledge aside
The walkway.
An adventurous spirit,
She tempts the mischievous
Heart of the wind.
He’s not one to entice
On this July day.

 

He grabs her split skirt,
Lifts it and pulls it,
He wraps it tight
Round one long thin leg,
Revealing the other bare
Up to just below
Her waist.
He pushes and presses,
Touching, hugging,
Her tall thin body,
Determined to have his way.
From the second story café’
I am watching match
Of wit and wind,
A lover’s tug-of-war
I know she can’t win.
He presses against
Her every body bend and curve,
He holds tight,
Then lifts,
Kisses and releases
Her
In heated gusts.
He crawls up,
Caresses, and entwines her
In his heat driven lust.
From the second story café
" I am a voyeur "
Of the wind
And his predatory play.
But for a moment,
I am him and he is me.
I catch myself in his games
Of lover’s fantasy,
Making love to her
Along the Boston harbor bay,
On this hot summer day.
He and I have a common
Thought about beauty,
About imagery,
About art,
And love,
In a mysterious,
Uncommon way.

 

She disappears
Into tall hotel doors,
Where I can no longer see her,
Or follow her,
But the wind slams
The door behind her,
In his own dismay.
For but a few moments,
She has been
A lover with the wind,
And allowed me to be,
Without knowing,
Or even giving in,
A secret part of her adventure,
In an uncommon
Second story way,
Along the winding narrows
Of the Boston Harbor Bay.