The Past

It was the morning the wind howled and

stammered at the windows, shook the panes

in their frames and clashed our giant

wind chimes in the back yard with an

unsettled fury.

The past can be like the wind, invisible

to the naked eye yet if I let myself, am

tossed around like the angry discordant

wind chimes.  The world breaths in the

past with such effort and lets it out

                    pell

                    mell.

I used to sit in the eye of the storm of it

slitted suspicious eyes gloating over

past wrongs but now

I move forward and in the effort of it

feel that wind toss around the garbage

at my back as the clearest sun the world

has ever seen shines brightly with

the heat of a million dreams clamoring

inside my skull waiting to get out.

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