A Conversation with the Wind

 

I sit alone and shoot the breeze,

when life is more than I can bear,

when truth is like a rare disease,

when things go down that don’t seem fair.

 

A conversation with the wind,

to put to rights the ugly wrongs,

to wish that I was thicker skinned,

to tell him where the blame belongs.

 

Not apt to judge or interrupt,

he only takes the time to hear,

sat sideways with his right hand cupped,

behind an overburdened ear.

 

Although he’s slow to take a side,

I’ve never known him disagree,

and even though his tongue is tied,

I sense he wants to side with me.

 

He takes my problems far away,

a godless priest without the blame.

I told him, if he likes one day,

I’ll try to sit and do the same.

 

But certain contracts work one way,

his silence cuts me to the core,

as if there’s nothing left to say,

as if he’s heard it all before.

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