Ballad of the Wind
I listen
to the ballad
of the wind.
The wind clings
to everything,
from a toy car
to an open book.
Crops grow
and lands change.
The wind sings on.
In the sky
a speck of dirt flies.
The still statue
takes a break.
Shirts sway on clotheslines.
I sense the ballad
and I sense the wind.
A human cannot sing
like a gust of wind.
A human cannot see
the wind singing on the moon.
To an astronaut
this is untrue.
Who says all humans are astronauts?
I listen to the ballad
of the wind. I am amazed
how far it travels.
This is true.
This could be measured.
It could be an ordinary Monday.
The sweet ballad will linger.
I heard it a hundred thousand
times in my life.
I live a life of impermanence.
This is the human existence.
The wind and the ballad
will go on with integrity.
On rooftops,
on the moon,
the soul of the wind
will sing on while
a speck of dust flies.
Imprisoned
You hide in a jail
of your own making,
searching for words
within the shackles
tattooed on your wrists,
emblazoned on your
mind, and tied firmly
around your tongue.
The keys are buried
somewhere under a
red hill, in a cold grave,
in the mouth of a
songbird perched
atop a wire fence.
It’s the blood in your
veins, which keeps flowing
in search of those words,
intent on breaking free
from the make-believe
prison in your mind.
Walk Out
And I walk out
because the
sun has yet to
climb free of
the mountain
to the sky,
clinging to its
golden sheets,
crisp and warm,
scented with
volcanic glow.
I walk without
looking up.
I go at a
steady pace
while the sun
takes a peak.
I look up
and then down.
The breathtaking
mountain has grown
a golden crown.
The top of it
is golden brown.
I feel the first
bite of sunlight.
I keep walking
where the trees
and its leaf
filled branches
shade me
from the sun.
The walk home
is warm, somewhat
comforting, unlike
an eagle’s claw
I imagine,
digging and
not letting go.
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