Wind, Or Where It Belongs Poem by Max Dahlquist

The wind breathes deeper every day
a gentle rustling
on the tips of wavering leaves
steadily increases
grows to a deliberate roar.
and the trees recklessly twist,
no rest through November;
none until next autumn
sets everything back in its place
myself included.

The wind breathes deeply
inhales our last remaining days
and scatters them over the sea.
ashes, the burnt-out embers
of memories.
No prayer or wishful thought
can make time ebb,
it always flows;
erodes thin trickles of water through rock
into the staggeringly deep.
lines on faces
callous on hands
on my fingers that intertwine with yours
for just a few weeks more.

The wind breathes
lifeless but constant
and I'll ride it westward, homeward.
but stay with me
crawl into every crevice of my heart
and brace the walls.
Stay, as the power dies
and every light flickers
and disappears.

until the storms pass
into soft breezes

until our souls go aloft
bright kites beneath the clouds

until the wind itself splits and disintegrates
into a stillness that leaves everything

where it belongs.