Winds

 The crisp winter breeze passed me by,

Oh my, didn’t it half sound like a cry.

A newborn? A child?

Or the sound a mother makes when she’s proud.

Winds, oh winds,

In the depth of winter, if only you were

The pain of a splinter — temporary.

But winds, sadly, are not the best.

I can fly, oh fly,

Cry, oh cry,

But nothing compares to the winds that night.

And yet, as dawn breaks through the frost,

The winds retreat, leaving only whispers.

Memories of their fleeting touch linger,

Soft, haunting — a voice I’ll carry forever

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