I've been
worried
lately
every time
the wind begins to blow.
The force of
that invisible
force
pulls me up
in its strong embrace,
sweeps me off my feet
and into its
unseen hands.
I become a
strange warmth
to it
as it becomes my
bedrock,
my bottom and
my base.
I've been
wondering
lately
if I might be caught up
in the gentle breezes,
swayed and
shoved around in the
upper reaches
of the atmosphere,
chilled in the
highest heights.
I've been
welcomed
lately
in the breezes upon my back,
the feel of the cold
stinging the nape
of my neck,
nestling its
strength
into my own weakness.
Maybe I
might collapse into it
one of these days,
and my feet will stop
their walking
and my hands will stop
their tumbling
and maybe I
might just become
like the wind.
I've been
winking
lately
at the thought that
I might be a dandelion,
seeds sprouting up
from my skin,
escaping pores
filled with the toxins
of 300 cartons of cigarettes
and the esteem
of a crippled chimera.
Should the wind
ever blow so hard,
be belligerent,
shove me around,
I shall scatter and disperse,
blown off in different directions--
I shall plant myself in
foreign lands
and allow my legacy
to be carried by the wind.