Waves of wind
Leaving no leaf un-impacted
Float above the tree-lines
With rambunctious sounds
To words without meanings.
Seated, alone, in front of his house
Beneath rows of towering maples and pines,
The Octogenarian ponders
The source-origin of the wind—
As he did when a boy.
With the same eyes,
He looks at the bushy branches
Whose leaves move wildly
To the rhythm and direction of that wind.
Rushing into the bush,
He grabs the branches
And holds them still around his body
Until the movement comes to a stop.
Looking for him,
His wife calls from the bench.
“Where are you, Darling?”
Peering through the branches,
With an embarrassed smile,
He pushes his face forward,
“What are you doing…”
“Here, darling,” he answers,
As he pushes one branch down his side.
Knowing her husband’s whimsies,
She answers in a mild retort:
“Are you giving birth to the wind,
Bringing it to its end?”
As a boy, he tried, many times,
To shake branches to induce them to a wind—
To no avail.
Now, an Octo
With a begrudging failure in his memory bank,
He is trying to stop the wind
By restraining the movement of the same branches,
Knowing, all too well, that,
Except for man-made things,
All he does is in vain.
And all other biological entities,
Live and continue to die accordingly.
Even man, with his substantial brain power
Cannot make changes to that destiny,
Even though he has made the world
Replete with man-made abstracts
And hand-held objects
Of infinite forms and shapes,
For, who knows?
How many generations to come!
Adolfo sends me a bit of his world...
And I read and respond...
feeling what his words bring...
I didn't know that it would provide
Exactly What I Needed...
Maybe You Too?
God Bless You, My Friend, Adolfo...
CATCH THE WIND!