of the breeze
through the leaves,
how I wish
I could discern
what you're saying;
how I wish we could
converse
so that I might ask
in a low, wordless moan
of my own
where it is
you come from.
Is it where some think—
from the far edge
of the planet?
Or across space
from the waving
of ancient stars,
or the windmill
of distantly
spiraling galaxies?
More likely, I suspect
it's from the ghosts
of all my future selves
passing through me
right this second,
like the wind—that is:
oblivious;
not howling
for my attention;
not trying to teach
or warn me of anything
because silence to them
is more than repetition—
it's the god's
honest truth—or
what I might call
non-fiction.
