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The morning sun
Couldn’t see wind,
Only the sand
It moved.
The sun couldn’t hear the wind,
Only the waves it touched.
The sun couldn’t smell wind,
Only the flowers it stirred.
Winds are what they poke!
Are you the wind? Am I a birch tree of yours?
Currents go through my leaves,
The memory lives in me, in plants,
In seashells, in things –
But does memory stay in wind?
I feel with my skin gulps
Of centuries before Christ,
Years after his death,
Spaces between human-invented times,
Translucent you –
Uncatchable with my hands,
Only palpable is the sand you move…