A Windy Afternoon

The trees sway
As the wind grabs the tips of their fingers
And pulls them in her direction.
They hold their place,
Their fingers swaying in the air like tiny waves
lapping against muddied rocks.
The sparrows complain,
Against the bitterness of the wind.
Their wings collide against her tresses,
Preventing them from reaching their nest
and settling down.
But my eyes fall on our pigeons,
Sitting outside their coop,
Sunbathing.
It somehow makes me feel at peace.

Early Morning

20140312-165710.jpg

I feel the touch
Of the wind as I
Press myself against the iron railing,
Standing on my tip toes.
The wind softly grazes
My cheek welcoming me
To its embrace.
It hums a melody.
I close my eyes and listen to its song.
The birds hum it back in soliloquy
From their nest
adjacent to mines.
They hum it as they prepare
To take off for their
Journey.
They take a hold of the wind’s
Strong hands
And plunge themselves
into the sky,
Flapping their wings
And flapping still.
I watch them
As they fly away playing
Their tune.

Drifting Away

 

I feel like going far away,
without telling a soul.
I feel like being lost on purpose…
wondering off to nowhere.
I feel like being a star,
just not a well-known star,
just an unknown planet,
shimmering across the night sky.
I feel like residing in the torn pages
of ancient scripts,
left untouched.
I want to be lost in unspoken words,
spoken thoughts,
left unsaid.
I feel transparent.
I want to be a nobody,
just a somebody
passing through the vivid streets
of everyday life.
I feel like running…
through large meadows
full of daisies and daffodils.
I feel like being a teardrop,
that hot, fiery sense of dread,
shedding out of your eyes,
running down your cheeks,
and onto the earth.
The sense of freedom… at last.
I feel like an iceberg,
the sense of breaking away from the rest,
and drifting away…
to an endless sea.
Drifting, drifting, and drifting.
I feel like being lost on purpose…
wondering off to nowhere,
somewhere,
anywhere,
but here.
I’ll come back one day,
Just not soon enough.