The trees here are
Stoic -
Ripped at by a wind
Whose language is, to me, foreign.

I incline my attention toward,
Wait -
Careful, lest I miss my name
On its breath.

Alas, it is not spoken,
Lost
In a ‘nether world
Surely meant for others.

Gravity sends the rain here, too,
Laden -
Almost like everywhere else
I’ve ever been.

But it falls to the dust
Flat -
Gathers in apathetic,
Powdery, soil-crusted rivulets.

My spirit strains to catch some melody
Still –
Finds instead a symphony
Muted by unfamiliar souls.

I have never encountered a land so
Passive –
And even with my great girth,
I will leave no impression.

10/08/2011

Author's Note: I am unaccustomed to this encounter with a wind that does not seem to know me.

Posted on 10/09/2011
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