Swellbound

The west wind punches 
from its customary direction
driven by ritual to spiritual sleight 

handing down judgments like hard candy
rocks, sugared and spiced, to the tune 
of a hundred million pinches

delivered via rivalry, sibling, 
to the home of the home of
a domestic clock, ticking 

at speeds incommensurate
with the breeze's pleasures

intermittently harmonious
with our adverb's silent bite.