Quiet

The wind is calling. Daring you to root your feet in blankets of grass, to warm your lungs with draughts of sun and breathe in drafts of summer. The air calls, it sings and shouts with whispers in your ear; can your soul not hear it? When did your heart go deaf? Perhaps it only speaks the language of stone. Look to the mountains then. Open your eyes, the stars will sign to you. Perhaps the ice is more easily understood. Watch the frost etch its message in code on your window pane. Is your mind blind? It certainly is not mute. It babbles as the brook, but unlike water, has nothing to say. Hush. Dig your fingers in the dirt and let the softness of the soil, the dust and clay remind you. And still the wind is calling, calling, if only you would listen.