Whereas once the sound of wind
was actually just highway noise,
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.