What is that windsong you're singing?
I can almost hear you through my tears
Just as you gust outside my window.
Urban wind, but seeming to bring
Tales of praries, mountains, valleys.
You slam the dust of ancestors full flat on the pane.
I'm not quite hearing you,
Not quite understanding the words in your fury.
Unutterable song. Unconductable. Chaotic.
I'm trying to find your pattern
Other than the banging of bins
The rattle of cans,
The jingle of jibs nowhere near here.
You bring a timpanii of rain.
Your squall is taking
All the feeling out of me and
Drumming it into my pillow.
You're the autumn wind of never ceasing, leaf stripping torment.
Casting futures to the floor for bus wheels to run over in the dawn.
I'm listening so carefully.
The ghosts of my ancestors riot in this wind.
Ghost genes mixed into a
Tornado of time and complex links.
A maelstrom of genetics.
An ancestor ghostgiant
Blown in by the terrible wind
Towering over my tiny presence
Demanding recount of whatI have
Achieved with its precious lineage.
Blacksmiths, farmers, seabound adventurers,
Horse breeders, gardeners gather colossal outside number 24.
Multiple fingers accusing, accosting.
"What have you done with us?
Our blood, sweat and tears
Our loves and our lusts,
Where are we now on our journey?
You seem to have taken us to a
You seem to be growing three cabbages. Three?!
Have three chickens. Three?!
Swim a mile and think it enough.
You create only noise. Empty words.
Where is our substance, our skills, our ways?
Is this what we lived for, loved for?
We expected something better than this.
We expected something more."
"What?" I ask.
Small-voice me. A bit whiny.
"What did you expect?
What more can I give?
This is me, I have given the best of me.
Not stealing, not killing,
Not lying, not drinking.
Not thinking (too much).
This is me, take me or leave me."
The colossus roars
Points several aeons of fingers
Roars again like a tired lion
Flicks some branches
Scuffles some leaves
The street is quiet,
My pillow damp.
My sobs have ebbed.