A Breeze

The land is warmer
than the nearby sea and
so a breeze begins
to stir some miles away,
rustling leaves above me as
I lean against a tree
and listen to the music
of the chimes I hung there
in the branches.
I cannot see the wind,
but still I know it's real,
it's there and gently forcing
a response from everything it
touches, making music without
trying; someone working
in the sun is grateful. You
are like that, too. Unseen
yet present, responses
from my heart ellicited,
mental windchimes
singing at the merest thought,
the slightest breeze, because
the mix of warmth and coolness
is not static, pulses with a tempo
and a fury all its own.
Purity of love can be
a hurricane but mostly,
sitting here beneath a tree
while branches whisper and
birds reply politely, it
is like a pleasant breeze.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014