The Breeze

It always touched my mother like

a soft, spring Breeze—as it pricked her

body with goose-bumped finger tips,

she saw

 

vibrant shades of purple and green—

colors of the wind that she needed to see.

 

Yet my atmosphere felt lonely and stale

as I stood under her clouds—salty

droplets formed above my eyes as

I searched for a profound sigh, but

the only conscious words in my mind

were “color blind.”

 

I used to watch the Wind smite our house;

perhaps it was because my mother built it

with her bare hands and fresh wood,

but she knew if it were a solid structure,

her home wouldn’t have budged.

 

So I rebuilt the walls one last time

as the sun burned deep past my eyes,

and through any Air that pitied my stagnation.

 

I watched her eyes blossom violets

as she examined my work, and

her hair’s evergreen tint took me

by surprise—I couldn’t control

a full grin, or my damp skin,

as she praised a renewed Breeze

that I will never meet.

 

Photo Credit: WordPress

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