In India they say we each get a chance
to hold a post in nature
be dew for a thousand years
a birch tree
the sun.
So it might be that there is a fellow
Martin, let’s say
who is
right now
the wind.
How exhilarating it must have been at first
whipping trees back and forth like see-saws
blowing up thighs
running alongside motorcycles
death on your heels
he and dust
your fleeting companions.
But it must grow tiresome
these invisible assignments
every time you go to hug someone
they hug themselves instead
and mutter about drafts and chills.
The wind roared for an hour last night
and I thought of Martin
losing his temper
fed up
a petulant bluster against
his fate
stand still and cease
to be.