Where there is wind
Why not-
Fill the air with nothing
but conflicting directions?
Roar with static,
bumping jabs of hot-cold
thrust through if it must
as though it is nothing but
A natural occurrence.
A nuisance. Non-sense
of white noise, endless sighs
of discontent, lamenting
leaves fray like nerves.
Shooting blanks, synapses short
fireback with backfeed too high.
Determined to go Nowhere,
Now with haphazard intents,
mischief is made,
trepidation is mistaken as
raw with ennui.
There it all goes...
This too shall pass...
Giving the barbaric wind
a safe place to play,
with words like To and Fro
and don't forget, Let Go-
Blowing away
my uprooted mind
freed from knowing
how heavy
we should have been
bolted down.
Image of painting by John William Waterhouse [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
