. Tower of the Winds Eight winds blowing, bluster overflowing,Buffet all the crevices of earth.Eight winds searching, lustily and lurching,Spawning every misery and mirth. First blows Boreas, minion of Polaris,Bane of maids and travelers on the deep.Frost upon his beard, a visage to be feared,Stallions in his care that do not sleep. In a nearby field Kaikias from a shieldVisits on the land a shower of stone.Whether he is kind or whether he is blind,Where or why he wanders is unknown. Apeliotes from the East, herald of the feast,Holds a cloak bearing fruit and grain.A young man’s smile, a face lacking guile,A friend to those who weeping pray for rain. To the southeast Euros, in the house of Helios,To some a god of storm, to some of sun.Over everything that grows a hot breath he blowsFrom where the poplars weep for Phaethon. Notus in the south from his torrid mouthSpews sirocco dust across the land.Those tossed at sea huddle in the leeEven as autumn’s bounty is at hand. To the southwest Lips, hand upon all ships,Steadying them safely from the rear.Yet like a mountain trickle the boyish god is fickle,Changing clear to cloud and cloud to clear. Zephyrus to the West, gentler than the rest,The favoring wind that brings Odysseus home.Yet this father of flowers turns in jealous hoursTo drive luckless Hyacinth to doom. As the warm days die, from the northwest skyComes bearded Skiron with his pot of coal.On the first chill morning, all must heed the warningOf this harbinger from the farthest pole. Eight wingéd horses in their wild coursesStamp the grass of every dale and hill,Thirsting for attention, ever in contentionTo bend the paths of mortals to their will. In the center of the gyre a woman born of fireRides a current moving in the calm.Ruler of the eight, sworn to mediate,She weaves their clamor into silent psalm. Look then to that core, beyond desire and war,The still point of a world ever turning,Where a spirit streaming light puts all ills to flight,Subdues all godly whims and mortal yearning. Fury from every part she draws into her heartAnd every ravaged edifice of men.Every back that breaks, every soul that achesBecomes a passing note in her Amen. . . Tad Tuleja, a Texas-based folklorist, has published poems in Blue Unicorn, The Road Not Taken, and Adirondack Review. As songwriter Skip Yarrow, he performs his latest CD, Gather, at www.skipyarrow.com and on You Tube.