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