Grammar of the Wind

The wind teaches a grammar of spaces and breath,
petals confess in invisible syllables;
scent and pollen annotate the lesson upon the sky,
the mountain holds its breath, a silent witness.
The wind rewrites the confessions of flowers,
between dew drops, commas of light.
It rereads the alphabet of colors with every gust,
and affixes an azure signature upon the deep.
In the mountains’ breath, phrases bend to the frost,
they stretch out into the warmth of a tired ray;
the grammar becomes an arch of mist and echo,
and the echo mends the language of time.
Thus is born a language that claims no truth,
but invites us to hear what the world sighs.
A lexicon of petals, stone, and cloud,
that leaves behind the scent of a quiet fall.