I pick letters off the winds.
String words together into garlands.
With ink-smudged fingers,
On crumpled papers,
I write my dreams.

I see them dance,
The letters, the lines,
I see them sing
Tell tales,
Stories of people in other lands
With dreams of their own,
Sent to me on the wind.

I pick them out
And pen them down
Throw in some of my own
Create and destroy
For what is writing but dreaming
And destroying

For I throw them away
Those words, those garlands
Watch them go
Just as they came
For someone else
In another land
To pick out
And thread,
Like I once did.

Words
They fly
Free.

Waiting for curious minds
And inquisitive fingers
To find them
And then they live
And die
Forever floating
On the wind.