Language of the Wind

The roots gather names forgotten in the deep ground,
learning how to write memory with the earth.
They speak softly, with the alphabet of soil folds,
and I listen to the beat that seeks a home in darkness.
The wind is teacher of fractured language,
grammar of leaves, counts of dust and breath.
Every word is a root stretching toward the sky,
every syllable bends like a thread of water.
With this tongue I call out lost houses,
those built upon the silence of days gone by.
The windows light up in the breath of routes,
and found names return to smell of bricks.
Thus memory becomes a bridge from roots to stars,
and the home returns, caressed by the wind.
I remain watching, until the old roof breathes,
and I know that speaking is returning where nothing was ever lost.