Wind Chimes

A breeze
from the northwest
slides in gently,
unpredictable gusts
crescendo and fade
at random rates,
improvisational dances
with cone-laden pine branches
serve no purpose,
no art
save surprise.

My eyes
float wide open,
sharp, clear,
uncluttered by concepts,
delight in full bloom,
well past curiosity
somewhere fascination
quivers between
obsession and release,
desire and union,
drawn down deep
into the present
like a titanium moth
to a white laser.

Stay perfectly cool
through the dense photon burn
like you were born there,
because you were.

All of this
the wind told me
while you fed the dogs.

I believe none of it;
it is as true
as faces in the clouds,
or the rabbit on the moon.

The wind is a liar,
or a storyteller,
depending on your mood.

Either way,
she blows past,
is gone.