bouncing free of the ground,
the air whipping through his hair,
as he goes drifting through the wind,
the boy has long ago forgotten the time,
through the grass he is running.
The air gusts with the boy, running,
as always, the laughing wind plays around him.
Living in the sky,
and winging down to play across the ground.
Without cares, flesh, skin or hair,
it dances and twirls, slipping through time.
Their lives are their only measure of time.
the green grass gripping the ground,
adorning the earth like hair,
and reaching, reaching toward the sky,
stamped flat as the boy goes running,
their tops gently quaver in the wind.
Boughs creaking and bending in the wind,
rooted deep into the ground,
with a grip deepened over time,
Branches rubbing and brushing the sky,
Ancient and envious it watches the boy running.
The bark is a thick skin, but with no hair.
A giant tangle of silver-white hair,
hanging, defying gravity but not time,
Floating like a giant puff ball in the sky,
Watching the passing boy go running,
pushed in a direction by the dancing wind,
never to come to rest, never to touch the ground.
Giving life and warmth to the ground,
blowing on them all with a warm wind,
rising and setting, giving the time,
said to be led by a chariot with horses running,
creating the clouds' blue backdrop, the sky.
A great burning hole with rainbow hair.
The sun showing time, the wind in the branches, the little hair grasses,
the boy on the ground, the running, flying breeze, the clouds in the sky.
by Daniel Gordon