The Wind

The boy looked into the stars

And saw where his grandmother had torn the yarn for the sweater

That he was wearing, that the boy

Had used the sleeve to wipe up spilt coffee

When there was wind

It made that sleeve cold, as he sat on the hill

Why was he on the hill

Was it the stars?

Or was it so that the wind

Could sing to him as he sat wrapped in her sweater

He wished there was still coffee

It was odd to be the boy

That night the boy

Sat on the hill

Until he could weave his thoughts into a map and he no longer remembered the coffee

That he had spilled beneath the stars

Yet his sweater

Did not dry in the wind

The wind

Whispered to the boy

And sang to him the story of his sweater

Way up on the hill

Under the stars

Without coffee

His grandmother had never liked coffee

And he heard her in the wind

And saw her in the stars

She was not gone thought the boy

He would return to the hill

He now knew why she had had given him the sweater

He later left that sweater

For in his hand he held coffee

In a world far away from the hill

Where the wind

Was silent to the boy

And he could no longer see the stars

Once he had climbed that hill in his damp sweater

To look at the stars in the absence of coffee

And the wind had sung to the boy