wind, my friend

when i was younger, i used to sit on the curb
by my house and wait for my friend to appear.
quiet, he makes his entrance from some obscure
corner of the world: north, south, east, west;
always such a drifter.
“where have you been? what have you seen?”
i always ask. he stays silent, only gently ruffling
my hair. but i know. he has touched the castles and
the pyramids and the rainforests and the mountains
and the rivers and the stones that decorate the earth.
when i inhale his scent, i catch faint lingers of other
cultures and civilizations masked between smells of
grass and trees and, somehow, it makes me feel worldly,
like i’ve been everywhere and seen everything he has.

now, when i am older, i sit on that same curb and
wait for him still. when he comes with a soft familiarity
that tumbles my hair and caresses my cheek, i let out
a silent breath upon his passing so when he reaches those
ancient monuments, they may also inhale a part of me.