When the Wind Dies

Feb 27 2020

Who knew

what they'd miss most

was a summer breeze,

the wind in their faces

tousling their hair.

That they'd miss moving freely;

unencumbered 
by stiff pneumatic suits,

unconfined
to sealed glass visors

re-breathing stale air

in a steel canister

in the vacuum of space.

Wind, felt but unseen,

and mysterious even to scientists

who know all about convection and pressure

and gradients of heat,

adiabatic effects

a butterfly's wing.

Who can explain the world

but cannot predict

why it came and where it went

or feel a breeze

describe how fresh.

Who can never be sure

of its beginning or end,

ineffable wind

invisible air.

And when the wind dies

there will be no corpse
left to decompose,

no deathbed repentance

confession of sins.

Only evidence

of overwhelming power.

You might have thought ice cream.

Or gazing out at sea

and breathing in its salty tang.

Or running down a forest path

in summer heat

with the sting of sweat in their eyes.

But no, it was the wind

they missed most.

Stepping outside, fully exposed

to the ocean of air

with all its currents, turbulence, tides.

Its temperamental violence

and heavy humid lulls.