You're an old windsong, that's where I know you from!

Repeatedly I have beckoned them to come, to grow,

but flightless here I am.

Now it's a trade. My feet for your familiarity.

It's a chasing game, life is, on the ground.

I've yet to come close enough to put a bell around your neck or offer you solace.

Still, it's the melody in a morning voice and

the whisper of fingers feeling out a hello on my shoulders

where you burn the brightest.

You're...oddly dim in person.

But you wear your face so well, I don't mind.

If I ever tire of you, I'll pop onto the porch

and see playing in the trees

and feel you in my hair

and you'll be renewed.

Try and find some comfort while you rest in me.