a poem by Jon Wolotsky

It is the whispering of the rain-soaked trees on a cloudy day
It is the remembered laughter of children playing
Their imagination, untamed and limitless.

It is not the destruction of a threatening fire, it is the light it provides
It is not closeness to death written on the wrinkles of old men’s foreheads,
It is tales of wonder and the ever-changing map of their pasts.

It is the old window of a barn that lets the horses see the sky
It is the cool touch of the wind brushing past our noses
Quick and unseen, but demanding
to be heard, to be felt.

And like the breeze,
It can be calm and make flower petals dance
Or it can choose to blow great Oaks to the ground.

It is the mountains that stand in front of the sunset
Watching in awe of such an impossible beauty
Or enveloped in the shadows it carelessly leaves behind.

It is in every smile, every laugh, every song
It is nowhere, it is everywhere.
It is love.


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