Whipping the trees.
One must wonder why we cannot see
Any blue in the breeze.
Red in the gusts is inconceivable,
And green is not seen in the wisps of air.
Nor purple flying high on the jet stream.
But yet it is felt
As the colorless words of love are felt
And as the shadowless names disappeared are sensed.
So as the wind carries through one’s hair,
One must be curious of how the wind is seen.
Never noticed is the pale skin on one’s face
Nor the color of hair on one’s head.
But one always notices the wind
Penetrating through pale skin
And brown hair.
As the wind flows through the mind
And the sun shines through its transparent being
One is forever searching the sound of life
And one is always seeking
The color of wind.