If I were a weightless leaf,
blown away,
how much of the world
would I see?
Caught in a bush
would I hear a woman weep,
or a man curse his fate
passing in the street?
Would I ascend a wall
and land by a child
sleeping in his bed,
hear his breathing
soft and deep.
Then be found when he awoke,
like a bird perished in its flight,
buried gently in the blankets
by his cheek?
I hope so.
Or would I simply toss in the air
and be lost in the corner
of a fence?
Feel rain fall on myself,
the ink inside
becoming pale and clear,
then return to the soil
and the hunger of a root.
Part of me kept as a stone,
a relic that someday might be found,
and put on the diary of a desk.
Kept each day,
reading its words
as they’re put down,
remembering
the never ending wind,
the flight,
that carries life and dreams away.