Winds

There've been gusts of sonnets, couplets, blank verse, and free for alls,
Sestinas, haikus for a bit, more recently ghazals.

Those days, like all days, were always going or long, long gone.
I'd like to love gone goings, but I don't care for ghazals.

Real winds torment cottonwoods bent over flash-flooded streams.
Aeolian tympani convulse me, but not ghazals.

Gales lack that orderly vocal harmony, that, "I'm here,
So you pretty much know what's next," that you get in ghazals.

They leave their mark as broken branches, split trunks, sap, fresh shoots.
Winds remain wilderness unremarked by civil ghazals.