If it blows you away
like the gusts from Western shores
which smell of seasalt and sun,
then I will try to blow with you,
holding onto the messages scratched into the dust
which dawn anew with time
and slice a weary meadow's song
to steal the worn words carried
on the back of the caterpillar
before flight.
If it takes you from me,
over oceans wide with weeping
or hillsides low with burden,
sinking them downward into some lost promise
of apathy
though they know they can still feel it,
then I will be forced to look again, love,
and give all I have to overcome.
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