Restless, the wind conducts me on a fling,
I'm fresh as the breeze that accompanies me
and as free. For none contains and stales me.
I dread to meet a soul right now,
yet souls call out from everything I see.
Evidence is left on porches.
Ice cubes stir in a lonely glass
as the wind gives them play,
ignoring the smudge on its drinking edge.
A curious draft leafs through a book left open,
show off its fluency.
I fume it would do the same with any trash it found.
As curtains rustle from within
the house, I'm on my way again.
People's gardens flit in and out of view.
I bluster how we hedge nature in, but
am won over by an aery symphony of waves:
blossoms bob and sway; branches heave and toss.
Streaming grasses ripple, seeds wafted to the sky.
My fast friend has turned stormy now.
He pushes his way through backyard toys,
pedalling tricylces and making chained swings soar.
Laundry shirts, filled with the spirit,
My heart joins them as I meet these souls head-on.
The wind dies, leaving me inspired.
I am at large, yet quite at home.
1. Image: Wind by Hillary Riggs.