Thursday, October 23, 2008


Whereas once the sound of wind

was actually just highway noise,

no longer.

The sound of wind is a million

leaves dancing in the warmth as

ancient ocean currents slide

past them, then slow, and subside

and my gentle rocking slows

so that the even creak of the

boards beneath my old chair is


and I breathe in particles of

sunlight and grass, of fallen

leaves and rich soil, of pine

sap and yellow pollen and

once again of the ever-beckoning


My eyes close and then all there is,

in all existence, is the warm glow of

a sun heavy in a golden sky.

There is warmth, on my face, on

my knuckles which now are

able to release their grip and

touch the soft air enveloping them.

The honest wind whispers again and

brings me home.

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