She isn’t loud, but neither is she quiet, the breeze.
Her whispers are parcels lost to time,
Her hem a memory that rustles upon the sky.
She carries a timeless correspondence
Penned by writer we cannot know,
Delivered to a lover we cannot see.
Where is the future? Surely not beyond my window!
Surely not in the leaves that listen to the past!
The breeze trembles before she is shaken.
I stand to face her, the breeze.
She reminds me of a nameless something;
She is a sieve collecting dreams in air.
I too am a breeze, I tell her. I too swirl
And swirl and swirl, ad infinitum.
Wednesday, December 25, 2013
After my dad spent the night in the hospital with heart trouble
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