Crisp is the sea-bound breeze,

as I sit here on the banks

                 of lovely Queen Lake.

       I can’t begin to fathom,

the journey this wind has,

                traveled.

        The countries it has seen.

       The smells that it has breathed.

      The tastes it has gorged on,

                   Oh!

            How I envy the wind.



       A boat sails by,

            and two jet skis race around it.

Their wake is generous,

                   and the waves tumble o’er each other,

     as I sit here and wonder,

where the red leaves fly,

       when they die,

   here in Boston.

No.

       No.

Don’t push them away,

    for they need to hear this too;

all living things,

      come,

           and go,

before we even know what’s around us.



I watch the dogs splash on the shore,

      as the old church bells sing,

in Philipston;

            how can this be the land of war,

                                   and revolution,

      when it’s plagued with beauty and peace?



I lift my eyes to the trees above me,

       and watch the leaves fall,

floating in a wind that I cannot see.

    I believe that I too,

while sitting here on this bank,

    am meant to fade away,

  with the breeze.