Infectious gusts delivered direction,
sailing.
From warm, southern coasts
of comfort and safety
to treacherous ice-piked banks
birthing uncertainty.
It seemed we could go anywhere.
We would go everywhere.
Soft airs exhaled by nature herself
on blemished cheeks
that extend with every savored breath,
every taste of tree bark hope
that we'd arrive shortly to land,
rosy quartz in my eyes.
Alternatively, choking
on freezing, bellowing realization
that the wind blows aimless.
Every place, I believed desired.
Every place, a destination,
though I never set foot on any shores,
only viewing them from my transport.
Thus, never grounded,
fearing decommission of my windmill self
that absolutely needs,
with all-consuming wrath,
even a slight breeze to automate.
Those were my feelings,
melded into belief.
Why, then, does the wind blow?
If it has intent, when?
And for whom?
How can I please it,
and by what means?
I already know where it's taken me,
but I now step off.
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