Have you see the way the music
sways the grasses…
Wind
arm on the windowsill…
The first three notes
tell me to sing…
A brief breeze passes, moving the tips of your hair…
A dry desert field, burning in the summer sun…
I don’t carry
a poker face
with me,
not sure I’ve pulled
it out of the vault…
If the world was my work,
and I had to pass through…
Hear the leaves?
The quiet whisper in the wind,
of air passing by…
Isn’t it a bit odd,
that we always talk about the winds of change…
A horse in waiting,
winds blowing and storms brewing…
Daily Poets 