Confronted
by a blustery wind
I feel my smallness
in the universe,


Engulfed
in studied concentration
I lean
against
the weathered porch rail
to consider the horizon

but the wind
will have none of it.
In a mood to play,
it whistles past me

like a teenage boy
exuberant with new energy,
then
doubles back again
and ruffles my hair
with cool fingers.

The trees
are watching me.

They are well aware
of this playful breeze.
They have felt its fingers
in their hair.

They look at me
with sympathy,
as if they already know

something

that I
have yet to learn.

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