The Cyclone

The wind asks the cherry tree
to wake me up
by rapping on my window
with its overgrown branch.
It wants me to judge the orchestra
with the air around
as one colossal woodwind instrument
played by the inept fingers and mouth
of the trees and windows left open.
The sound that they produce
is similar to the wailing
of a mother who lost
all her children
and not a symphony
as he wants it to be.