We are like children who ask
where the wind lived
before all this homesick blowing began.
“Home is where the heart is,” wails the wind.
“I begin where you begin where I begin.”
We are like the children who ask
why the wind is sad and mad and lonely.
“I am sad because I ferry rainy teardrops, mad
to get the trees to dance, but never lonely.
I stroke all things with gazillion fingers.”
We are like children who ask
what the wind is saying.
“These plaintive moans are not my own.
They are the voice of all that stands
against me. My word slips mute
through the tonguelessness of space.”
We are like children who ask
where the wind is going.
“Don’t try to track my pathless paths.
Your wind vanes spin in vain.
They are the onlookers waving at a train
that has already left the station.”
