When I begin to have conversations with houseplants,
take tea with relatives long dead and gone,
and see things that just aren’t there,
or maybe they are there, but just not here,
I will become the wind.
I will become a resounding gust swooshing through treetops,
black walnut, locust, maple and oak, shagbark hickory and weeping willow.
I will blow through branches and boughs
of quaking aspen and ancient, towering pines.
Sing harmony with birds as they twitter, tweet, chatter, chirp and cheep.
I will become a current of air that blows papers off your desk,
musses up your hair and jangles wind chimes on the porch;
an unseen force that marshals advancing armies of purple thunderheads;
a Blue Norther that drives bristling whitecaps
from a churning lake onto stony beaches.
I will be a velvet messenger carrying the fragrance of lilacs and lavender,
a gentle breeze to cool the brow
of a man who sits in the warm sun of late afternoon,
contemplating a piece of fuzz
as it floats in the air;
holding court amidst ferns in his garden, discussing politics and poetics
with boisterous black-eyed susans and brazen bumble bees.
A man who wonders if he really can taste layers of licorice,
plum, pepper and vanilla in his Zinfandel,
as described on the label?