I dance through the gap of your open window,
whispering secrets to the pages
of the book on your desk.
The dust rises, a tiny storm,
and the paper flutters, alive for a moment.

On the rooftop, I twist the old weathervane,
spinning its rusty arrow
to point east, then west,
a game we’ve played for decades
though you never seem to notice.

By the riverbank, I swirl around
the tall reeds, bending them
in choreographed chaos,
their thin stalks bending, swaying,
sighing in a language only I understand.

I shift through the leaves of the lone oak
in the corner of the cemetery,
where names have faded on stones,
and memories hang as light as me.

I am the breath of the morning,
the sigh of the evening,
the voice that never speaks.
In every draft, every breeze,
I am the quiet presence
that moves through your world.