The wind is a reminder of lost memories,
that all things pass as leaves are swept before it,
even though the trees remain for many moons,
and from their roots rise archetypes of memory,
ephemeral, abiding when subliminal.
Perhaps it is perverse of me, this tendency to hear
within the passage of the wind attrition of the years,
and sense within a field of flowers bending to its whim
the passing of a life held close, the absence of one dear...