The Wind No Longer Whispers
After William Stafford

by Carol A. Stephen

The long howl of an ancient wolf envelops sound,
as its final exhale sends a chill rebounding from the moon.

Every bird goes silent,
every church bell, every choir.
Each newborn baby, born mouth open
in a silent mourn.

Rivers run voiceless over rocks, no longer
chortle along their etched route among the stones
of the ages. New hatchlings, mouthing a call for food,
shatter no silences. The wind no longer whispers
among shivering leaves. The world, without its voice,
sheds tears. No one hears a sound.

The earth begins to tremble, summoning the grass.
She prays to the sky to send its morning moisture,
to bathe her flowers once more in gentle rain.
The clouds, gathered above, begin softly to weep.

Below, there is a stirring. Below, at last, all
the voiceless things begin to sing in…

I Am Still Waiting for Green Mornings
by Carol A. Stephen

I woke this morning to snow on the dwarf
spruce, small dustings on its branches, lovely
come December, but it’s April now.

Last summer was too hot for green, while autumn
was a bold blur of red, yellow, orange, until lockdown
washed all colour from the world.

I am still waiting for those green mornings, for unpremeditated
rapture, for Perpetual Wonder, and for animals to fall like rain
in a painted tangle of green in Mikhail Vrubel’s Morning.

But now, everyone runs in place; I run in circles, and we’re all
still waiting for the final “all-clear.” In the garden, lilacs are budding,
robins have returned, and along the Riverwalk, forest babies wait

for their next meal. White-tailed deer forage under the snow.
Herons, otters and mink dive in the river for fish. The ospreys are back
to their…