World

Peering past winter's folly
into life anew, and again.

Four years I thought it
strange, the wind's way
of speaking in gentle hush.

I am not fluent in
such acute niceties,
nor to reciprocate a
gesture of breezy assurance.

For years I stand hollow,
guilty of bottling moonlight
in spite of the setting sun.
A separation anxiety - dually,
I hope to instigate cruelly.

It's then, when the
sun and moon yearn
shall I speak to the
wind in her native tongue.