the breeze

he comes only 
   with the breeze, when 
   the air is crisp and 
   light, so I open my windows every 
   morning to hopes 
   that he may already be there and, 
   if not, 
   that he may flow 
   through to me softly 
   as the sun rises and 
   falls, bleeding 
   through with the very same 
   warmth his sporadic 
     gusts 
      provided me. 
he comes only 
   with the breeze, where 
   there is beauty 
   beckoning to be believed, 
   so I open my windows every 
   morning to the
   magnificence and the 
    wonder
    of life. 
  and whether I 
    see him or 
     not, 
   I am, for 
     once, 
         alive.  

- Charlotte Griffiths

 

Published by Charlotte Griffiths