The boy
stretches across his bed
naked;
the day has not yet cooled,
but the wind, though warm,
evaporates the moisture from his arms and chest,
and this is good.

He always listens when the the wind speaks,
sometimes inviting him to play,
sometimes warning of danger,
sometimes telling of far-off places,
sometimes whispering him to sleep.

Tonight it says,
"Let me clear you of your father's harsh, unthinking words,
your mother's fearful retreat.
Let me dry the sweat-tears shed by your young body.
Let me be your breath, ceaseless, sweet, eternal."

Text, image and audio © 2011 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.

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