The Wind

A river vehemently seabound. Fatigue
made me sway in the wind, I could not hold
the moment in focus. A space opened
as one kind of seeing lapsed, and I flowed,
a minute part of everything — then glimpsed
my own absence from all this process and
particularity: the world as poem.
As if hearing my thoughts the wind argued
and cajoled, its body enveloped mine,
cold hands unshaped me, so that I entered
a limitless nothingness. Sky and sea
sped backwards, sped away, as it blew me
home bearing a capsule of death, a seed of
acceptance for my burial garden.