Blown

Blown

In the hush of a wintry dusk, the gusts arise,
Whispering secrets through the bare‑branched trees,
Their breath a silvered veil that sweeps the skies,
Turning stale thoughts to scattered, trembling leaves.

I stand, a lone reed upon the meadow’s sigh,
Feeling the pulse of the world’s unsteady hand,
Each puff a hymn, each gust a lullaby,
As I am lifted, then gently set to sand.

The wind, a wandering minstrel, carries far
The scent of rain‑kissed heath and distant sea,
It blows away the weight of yesterday’s scar,
Leaving my spirit light, unburdened, free.

So let the breezes blow, relentless and kind,
For in their restless dance I find my own—
A fleeting moment, yet forever aligned
With the endless song that the world has blown.