A WALK

Death and Birth went walking together, eager to play.
            “What shall we do today?” said Death.
            “Let’s give life to something new,” said Birth.
            “Alright,” said Death, “but tomorrow, let’s take it away.”
            “Okay,” said Birth, “it would never work if we did it the other way.”

THE WIND

I have no secrets to keep.  When I blow by, the trees and the rocks and the walls hear what you hear—I have no hidden language for them that sounds like mumbled rushing to you.
            There is only my breath, its force or gentle touch against whatever resists it: walls or windows, woods or rocks, creatures with their heads bowed, men holding on to their hats.  There is only my breath, my voice.
            Sometimes it is as soft as a nighttime whisper, and soon I am asleep again.
            When it is a fierce, raging bellow, beware: I have no love then, no care for anything.  I’ll break myself against whatever is in my way.
            Sometimes my voice rages and then soon calms, rising from nothing, ending in nothing.  That is a story you recognize.
            Sometimes my voice is as sharp as the blade that pierced your heart.  I mourn myself, like you do, for whatever blows is always blowing away.
            Do not fool yourself—you know better than anyone what I mean when I speak; I need not dress my breath in words.  And do you think you are any mystery to me?