In my room the wind blows strong
against the old glass panes above my head,
its whistle stripped of the pitch and the sting,
becoming a soft caress of my cheek,
reassuring me that an ocean of air
still stirs just inches past my bed.
These walls keep out the world for me
so I can dream of it at night,
as the songs of the past day
sow reflections through those ripples in the air.
Or, sometimes they don’t and the current grows still
and the space beyond these walls seems empty and bare,
like the universe packed up and left me behind
and the house only creeks because the wind has stopped holding it up.