Sapphirism

  oh, to be a wind spirit. my lithe form flutters through the chimes that tinkle in a glass house on a mound. we are but tiny soldiers of clay and fire, baked and painted little toys, when forgotten, lifeless. fallen leaves rustle, only  to become laden with the weight of time and be buried forever. to be the little sprite stealing  in between broken columns and blades  of grass and throats of sparrows  in a nurturing tree. to be an imperceptible shift, the inconsequential whisper in a crowd of voices that want to leave their mark.