It always touched my mother like
a soft, spring Breeze—as it pricked her
body with goose-bumped finger tips,
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.
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