Despising Soil: You Were Never the Wind

Inhale that shapeless form of the
air.
It's cold here and the dry
skin of my hands crack.
The wind blows the leaves,
moves all of the trees.
But you never see it. You don't see the wind and it doesn't see you.
It moves across your skin,
moving the tiny hairs of your arm.
It lets you know it is there. It's the effects you see.
A connection so delicate it almost doesn't exist.
You.
You were never the wind.
You were never the
whistling sound of the air
moving through holes of street signs.
That is too subtle.
That is just too kind.

A whisper in my ear from the soothing sounds of the clear sky.
With the stars all lit up in the gap between all of these
evergreen trees and the smoke rising like a slow,
disappearing wave; I understand.
I understand the brightness of the stars.
They want to be seen.
They want to be appreciated for the accent they bring to a desolate night, out in the woods, out where the days are cold and daylight disappears like dirt on your skin.

But you: the dark night with those prehistoric clouds, moving like the soul a shark.
You wouldn't know where to find the words to create a picture for us all.
You couldn't explain the reason of change and unfairness.
The reasons for repetition and greed.
But you condone.
You condone it all and I, yes I have the words to prove it.
A slow spinning carousel in the middle of the woods, rocking and creaking. It rusts and it sings. It sings a song that goes like this, "You, the despising soil, are underneath it all. What you feel is packed together. You were never the soothing sound that nature brings. You are the secret eyes of forest that never do anything."

Here we are, connected to life, but separated and all.
Here I am, breathing, making sense of everything.