I’ve been told, in no uncertain words,
that I am weak and breakable.
That the sorrowful wind could lift me up,
and ruin me, just by passing by.
But I am not so soft, so narrowly defined.
And even the darkest hurricanes,
the storms that wreck and roll and roil,
carry the kind winds of change.
Kind? You ask. Change is no kindness.
I argue. We fight again and again.
With change, I say, I have some chance
of finding other cures.
I was a frightened thing. Poisoned,
by the soft shell of life and laughter.
I needed to be reminded, or taught,
that the world was not so lucky.
But here I am. A changed man, a better man,
but still so weak to toxins.
I’ll flinch, and flee, and beg for quiet.
All while craving alacrity.
Perhaps a game of decades, then. Poisons clear,
and the sorrowful wind blows again. Calmer now.
I will be old, and still broken. The wind, less fierce.
And all our enemies long past caring.