Meditating on a Stormy Afternoon

As I sit
Stockinged feet
On a cushion,
I am windblown
Through the open window.

The wind rushes by,
And the slight birch bows
Jerking its quiet leaves
Into a mad jig.

My gaze settles
On a patch of sunlight,
And I breathe in the coolness
Of an early afternoon.

Fragments of a thought
Dilate and grow.
They scurry by
Like the squirrels
I see darting
Over the gap
Of the still unmended fence.