Ode to the Wind

You dribble spindles of desert grains
over sea waves and twiddle lake ripples
betwixt your fingers like a lit cigarette
while I can only sink my hands
into dunes and watch sunsets;
while I stand marooned on beach sand
trying to catch your scent
and smell why you went.
So I'll wait at a cliff-edge,
where you smack my face
above the sharp and maybe-bloody blackness;
where you fled from worn trails that led
away from bivouacked grass and fresh foot tracks;
Do I lie to my eardrums when I hear your chimes rung,
and surmise you're behind it,
or if I feel my hairs move,
and presume you rifled through them?
Is it you who chooses where the dust picks up
and the field crops bend?
And if nothing moves, and leaves turn lead,
if the hurricanes cease, and the clouds drop dead,
Is it you who whispers
"move again"?

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