The Summer Wind

The summer wind rushes through tree branches, twisting leaves as if determined to rip them from their branches and cast them over lawns and lakes and streams. But once passed, the summer wind has caused no damage: branches are unbroken, and their leaves hang limp and unruffled in the heat. You too stand still, your arms stretched high above your head, your hands fluttering like birds ready to launch into deep sky-flight. You turn and twist until dizziness sets in and you plop onto the lawn and curl your body into a tight ball. The grass is soft and pliant. You may drift into sleep and be far away from me, even though I stand near and watch your every breath. You are dear to me: it is no chore to be thus on a summer day. Accept this bouquet of dandelions, bright and sun-charged. It is a thing of beauty, short-lived but long-remembered. Look, I fling the bouquet into the passing wind, and for a brief moment three things are air-borne: the wind itself, the flying dandelions, and my heart released into flight.