Sweeping
down from the frozen,
unreachable peaks
of some ancient, sibylline
range of mountains
to meander, invisible
and chill
the plains of the earth,
the true wind—
the real kind,
the perfect wind—
whispers;
but never in words,
much to the chagrin of
several philosophers,
but
mostly to
the tremendous relief
of the sinning multitudes
who don't mind
the thought of
being prayed for
but are desperate
not to imagine
ever
being prayed-
over.
