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Poem

Now here am I
still floating back to earth,
and lightly so,
for all these words
arrive on little velvet pillows.

I wish I could have
stayed up there
and lingered by your side.
Still it is you who signals me
each day with patient wind.

I feel it gently on my face—
whistling softly in my ears and
lifting distant scents for my mind's reflection,
redolent of blossoms far away—
from so very long ago that I'd forgotten.

Therefore, what am I to do
to reassure you
of my life and time?
How are they now that
I might speak of them?

I have chosen thus
to stand alone
on tall and barren hills—
and daily task myself
to paint the wind with clouds.

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