Meaning with No Future in It

Wind doesn’t signify in these canyons.
It’s frequently roaring on clear mornings
With ten days of hot sun in the forecast.

When the rare storm’s coming, it could be still
Or windy or simply idling along.
The storm’s known when it breaks, not by omens.

Sit by the window on a windy dawn,
Thinking about how what seems meaningful
Depends on the sense that it’s predictive,

How it feels like anticipation’s sieved
When the surrounding moment’s portentous
Without actionable implication,

The way an Ashbery poem has syntax
And seems to be conversing sensibly
But never arrives at any fury.

What do you want from wind? What do you want
It to tell you? The saplings bend double
Until the sun’s high. It calms. They’ll survive.