Walk through the wind,
whispers of the unknown feint in,
woe to the plowshares trudge.
Waltzing into summer, unburden the strings
as autumn dies asking, when will winter come?
When wheat becomes bread, will there be enough?
The sycamore wishes for the night bird’s song,
wandering across forests and sands,
words to a world never revealed.
Waste no tear on the writhing willow,
with winding roots cracking rot and rock,
weeping words into slipping soil.
Wisdom is knowing when to let go,
windswept by love and mercy,
willfully into the surrender.