Air of gravity

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.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s