Wind

The hour is late, nearly lost
like all the others--
here now then gone
with the good old wind.
Alone, me, with leaves piled up
like corn flakes against my door,
I worry his ashes will blow away.
Because nothing is safe from wind.
I recall our boat ride to the whales,
how the ocean rocked beneath us,
how the wind threw waves at us,
how it tried try to pull us down
before our time.