standing in the wind on the prairie

you are at the mouth of the very beginning
of all that is green or brown
rooted or traveling
dusted with fragments of life
scattered and lost

a mother yells at her kids to come inside for dinner
but the sounds
are lost on the wind
broken up into letters
writing words along the prairie
that weren’t there

the wind steals bits of lives
syllables of desire
consonants of finality
vowels of pain
and mixes them all around you
until you are a part of everything
the wind has touched

running into someone’s
lost sorrow
or escaped happiness
you wonder why
the wind
makes you unbearably
sad or angry

or want to go home for dinner

when you live on the wind
you are obligated
to be the start and the finish of hope
you are obligated
to blow lightening to all the right eurekas

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