Whirligig

Clarence Wolfshohl

November 2, 2025

At five she and I made a paper whirligig

Pinned to a mesquite twig.

It caught the wind

Blown past her as she ran

Down the rockside hill

When I’d come in after work.

I’d catch her wild hugs

Around my neck,

The whirligig propelling in my ear.

She was what we had

Plus the rockside hill.

They moved to another hill

After the wedding,

Fought the droughts,

The windmill turned empty-handed.

But she comes home

Windy days;

Lately brings

Her own with whirligigs.

I can’t catch them up

As strongly.

Weeds too high on the hillside anyway

For those wild hug flights.

The mesquites are larger or rotted dead.

I sit here recollecting budding twigs.

Clarence Wolfshohl has been active in the small press as writer and publisher for over fifty years, publishing poetry and non-fiction in many journals, both print and online, including New Texas, San Pedro River Review, Agave, Cape Rock,  New Letters, and Texas Poetry Assignment.  In 2025, he has published Play-Like (Alien Buddha Press) and the chapbook Scattering Ashes (El Grito del Lobo Press). Wolfshohl lives in the suburbs of Toledo, Missouri, with his cats.