flow

 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.