The Wind

It moves in secrets,
A spy on a mission,
Deciphering the rawness in the wound.

Sometimes it brings a smell,
The sea with its salt and barbeques,
Cold clouds and warm rain.

Sometimes, a fragrance from long ago,
Scent of a cologne, an old lover,
Or lime musk soap, childhood baths,
Sleepy blankets hiding in the morning.

Sometimes, a haunting sadness
That calls out from nothingness,
An aching desire to go back,
Into the realms of a past forgotten

But today it's none of that.
It's flight, the clawing at obstacles,
Struggling outwards and soaring high.

Then seeing yourself,
There down on the ground,
on a bench,
In a garden, eyes closed
Trying to be one with the wind,
Succeeding at last.