When a drifter, tracing his finger in the sand,
draws a roof, a chimney, windows which shine even in daylight,
the air begins to ripple and erase the lines,
yet he draws on, adds a door as the moist motes melt and dissolve,
and a circular fence to mark the courtyard
in which the shadows preserve the earthen peace.
And when the lover, by touching the other one,
draws invisible havens on their body and then
nestles up within, same as the drifter in the now dispersed house
which moves ever closer to the center of the world.
Then, there is wind and hope.
Then, there is wind
and hope.