I listen
to the ballad
of the wind.
The wind clings
to everything,
from a toy car
to an open book.
Crops grow
and lands change.
The wind sings on.
In the sky
a speck of dirt flies.
The still statue
takes a break.
Shirts sway on clotheslines.
I sense the ballad
and I sense the wind.
A human cannot sing
like a gust of wind.
A human cannot see
the wind singing on the moon.
To an astronaut
this is untrue.
Who says all humans are astronauts?
I listen to the ballad
of the wind. I am amazed
how far it travels.
This is true.
This could be measured.
It could be an ordinary Monday.
The sweet ballad will linger.
I heard it a hundred thousand
times in my life.
I live a life of impermanence.
This is the human existence.
The wind and the ballad
will go on with integrity.
On rooftops,
on the moon,
the soul of the wind
will sing on while
a speck of dust flies.
Luis was born in Mexico, lives in California, and works in the mental health
field in Los Angeles, CA. His poems have appeared in Ariel Chart, Beatnik Cowboy,
Dope Fiend Daily, Unlikely Stories, and Zygote In My Coffee.
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