They say, when the Wind blows

trees will whisper

grass will whistle

flowers will giggle

ponds ripple with mystery

as one plunges down

with blurred sight

and sights of glistening jewels darting around,

green blades waving, and tickling bubbles.

They say, when the Wind blows

the clouds will join, bringing gentle rain

to cleanse the land with a careful hand

all will cheer with joy with the blessing

continuing to live in peace and hamony

as the sick become healthy and the old renew

frogs will croak, the crickets joining in,

birds playing soprano and the big ones stomping bass

in a beautiful, perfect world.

They say, when the Wind blows-

but now I know better.

The wind is not magical, though I wish to believe,

and long lost that belief as tragedies unfolded,

too late to believe in a savior when all else tells otherwise,

the sick will not become healthy without medicine,

the old cannot become renewed, only expired

and the ground will never be norished by a fortunate rain sent down by the blessing wind, though occasionally, I may believe.

When the wind blows, the wind blows, and stories will resurface within my mind of a childhood long past.

The wind is no longer my saviour and hero.

I am.