Wind

The wind is not a disappointed sigh
of the distant creator from above.
The wind is not a whispered prayer,
searching for an undiscovered response.
The wind does not grasp any hair
with it’s greedy grey wandering fingers.
The wind is not a whistled tune
of an angel’s feather lips.
The wind does not howl in despair
across the blanket of the wise aging sky.
The wind does not frolic and gossip
Amongst the restless curious leaves.
The wind is not a warm embrace
Of your deceased love.
The wind is not this poem
filling up the wise pink mind.

The wind is air, in a constant hurry.