The wind has its own song
More beautiful than any guitar
I lay in the field
As it reminds me who I am
As it serenades me to sleep
In a dewy morning malaise
And I'll hide in this tall grass
Waiting for your return
Making friends with colorful crickets
Who rely on the fickle cacti
With red tips and green bodies
To hold them aloft in a spiky balance
(Why do they trust them?)
Later I'll stretch my body
Before a setting sun
Inhaling in gulps the warmth
From a post-rain regeneration
Becoming a being in this mystery
Aware of everything
And nothing at all.
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