Can the wind remember when
you spat into its lungs?
When you spoke ill of ancient
things and unloaded
grief into its squall?
How much do you suppose
it holds to heart?
How much do you think
it resents?
Could it be that
knowing songs
of winding, whistling
old windstorms
carry with them
the curses
of their passerby,
of mortals slim
and fit to die,
of loners looking
to blame their pain
on bits of unfossilized breath?
Of air that dares
to never end?
But what is squeamish,
red-faced jealousy
to, well, face it,
eternity,
and to the wisdom of
perpetuity — the kind
that revolves
around itself?
Can the wind remember the
slights of maddened men?
Or is the wind
unconcerned,
and just pleased
to spin again?