A Gust of Wind

What color may Wind really be?

No math or science could ever tell.

Your whisper casts on me a spell

That somehow crowds my mind with glee.

What color may Wind really be?

Your phantom carries with it shade

That keeps me from the bite of day.

With voiceless pleas of ancient towns

You stand your ground, round by round,

And come back to fight again.

Your sweet perfume of life and death and rum

Trails from land to land; from sea to sea.

And when the morning plays its drum,

I’ll ask again: “What color may Wind be?”

My skin crawls when I feel your touch

And makes me slowly fade away,

Drifting, trying to find a way

To hold you finally in my clutch.

Oh, Wind, your secrets are too much.

In the breeze I can hear the trees

Embezzling, under which we

Once sealed my fate in blood and ink.

Be blue, or red, or green or pink;

I ask, what color may Wind be?