Woodwind Wonder

A fall of tacks and dice,
a ripping of paper.
 
The whirling wind upholsters the leaves in an upright spin.
They tuck by the tail and kick like a teapot.
Up, down, fold and around —
 
prep the grip on the mic
 
against the moratorium of a tumescent stand.
 
Shock to my lips — the words siphoned.
Like rafting whitewater,
an air runs from the bridge of that neck.
A tiger, lapping,
breeds relief of the days of asking.