Breath

The day I shouted at the wind

I flew – my voice – away

and air contorted with the sound

of breath in desperate play.

I didn’t hear it echo round

where congregations pray;

perhaps it will return, rebound,

on judgment day.

A syllable or two,

a vowel,

a consonant or two,

a howl;

a new expression as a ring

into the void, no-thing.