Man in the Wind
In the end I'll open, find
Nothing knocking but the wind.
Nothing knocking but the wind.
When you come you come so lightly,
I can never know you rightly;
Vines it might be from the eaves;
You have fingers like the leaves;
You can veer upon my door
Batter there, be off, before
I can even turn the lock.
It is hard to tell your knock
From the elements I love
From the tap, the knuckle of
Autumn gale or winter storm;
Always when you come, your form
Speeds upon the spinning air
And I stand and stare.
I can never know you rightly;
Vines it might be from the eaves;
You have fingers like the leaves;
You can veer upon my door
Batter there, be off, before
I can even turn the lock.
It is hard to tell your knock
From the elements I love
From the tap, the knuckle of
Autumn gale or winter storm;
Always when you come, your form
Speeds upon the spinning air
And I stand and stare.
So tonight I open, find
Nothing knocking but the wind.
Nothing knocking but the wind.
