The Passing Wind And The Blind
Even a passing wind has aim,
it moves with force, direction, and claim.
Not every wind becomes a storm —
yet bends the branch and shifts the form.
The dunes are carved by grains of sand,
not by the thunder's heavy hand.
The stone is worn by what persists,
not sudden strikes from angry fists.
The seed is carried and fields are grown,
by what you barely felt or known.
The blind eye names it nothing still —
the valley fills against its will.