See How the Wind

See how the wind repeats itself
and beats upon my door? Another gray November
come to remind me how the shrunken days
mumble and fret and shawl themselves from light.
Ducks drift down the sky like harried kites,
leaves scuttle under the oaks, apples lie still,
a crow talks to himself in an empty tree.
I stand my ground and warm the air
with a man’s presence and let the cadging wind
back from the alleys of the world
whine on my steps. I am no humble vine to cringe
at a touch of frost nor a plowed field 
humping my furrows against the snow.
I’ve looked at the hollow eyes of hunger
and faced them down, and before rust
sets the hinges of my door
I’ll see again the falcon sun
poise and strike his golden spurs
into the green flanks of my land.