When the breeze ruffled my hair,

it spoke and asked where

my pages were and would I

repair my wounds;

I wondered if air

was free to choose

or was it arbitrarily shot into

delicate openings like

flowering plants and brains awaiting

the correct sloshing of chemicals

so that the air, if from someplace

lovely like a garden, would cause poetry,

and toxic air from war zones would inflict

grave injury like cynicism or apathy.