It occurred to me today –
The wind must like the sound of its own voice
Blowing through the tight weave
Of metallic threads in a window screen.
Or maybe,
The wind isn’t conscious of itself at all,
Simply moving through space
Without any particular inclination or intention,
Moved about by some
Universal whim not of its own accord.

I know, it doesn’t make sense -
My ego can’t get its mind
Wrapped around the idea at all.

Still, I feel the caress
And allow it to comfort –
The curtains dancing, too,
In the primal rhythm -
Even when other music plays.

You must understand, the wind
Consoles without discrimination or bias,
Is not particularly persuaded by
Beauty nor beast,
Youth or age,
Failing organs or death.
It does not seem to grieve or rejoice,
And cannot be held suspect in the fray.
The wind offers solace
In unpredictable yet generous measure,
Soothing furrowed brows at any level of
Surrender.

As sentimental as the idea was at first,
I am not the wind afterall.

05/25/2010

Posted on 05/26/2010
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