Wind

Silent sprites seek sleeping speech,
Above an old man who sought solace to teach.
The young man wishes to be the adamant oak,
Yet he danced to a murmur of what the wind spoke.

Where does one find such simple things that hide?
To be like those, the ones who guide and provide.
The resolution of a secateur reaping thistles that soon bite?
The crashing sunset amidst loneliness of mother moonlight?

Those of patience keep by it, yowl and scream,
And the young man keeps quiet, howls and dreams.
Why is he afraid to learn to fly?
Wise wizened wizards whisper why.

© Sayer Teller

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