Madman

In his laughter, like wind
rushing through leaves, 
is there an edge of pink or rose:
a blossom come to spring,  
a stream of rain 
on winter's pane of ice?
Can it be cold?--
the dark between two stars, 
water's torrent down smooth stone?
Or is it a fire flaming out of brass
to dance in shadow on the wall? 
His laughter,
like wind a ribbon in his hands,
how has it turned
that you must find his face
and seek a twisting there?

jazz