The Map Room of Winds

In the attic a cabinet of glass, I unroll the morning like vellum. Each drawer holds a different gust caught and labeled in careful ink.

A wind from the north, smelling of pine tar, whistles its thin arithmetic through seams. A southern draft, warm with bread, lays its palm on the back of my neck.

I pin a thunderhead to the board and it refuses to stay, cobalt and loud. Storms do not like to be archived; they keep leaning toward the door.

At dusk I fold the day’s breezes away. The room is quiet, a compass without its needle. Outside, the streets are a choir of leaves, still practicing my name.