The Wind
You steal my eyes
with your teapot whistle through a door,
an amusing segue to
your majestic journey
over fields of wheat,
now only a memory.
While windows shadow swaying trees,
only your flicker in a candle
beside a bier
gives testimony that time
is never still.
It’s so quiet here.
The silence is death.
So, did you come with
cold as your companion,
or is he mine?
-Jerry
Wendt 2010
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