Sunday #6

Zephyrus Never Gets Goose Pimples


Have you ever felt the breeze
tickle the skin on your arm,
float between the tiny hairs,
cause them to sway and rise
as goose pimples spread?

Everyone has, but not the wind,
who answers that he has no skin,
no hair to disturb, that air
upon air is like water flowing
in water, with no tingling otherness.

The wind asks in return if I
have ever floated a mile above
the Great Plains, playing
with my brothers, skirting
along the stiff feathers of birds--

Pushing along lazy clouds,
the last herds left to the empty
expanse, dipping down to earth
to skim across the grass until
coming across the great river

And screaming east with unending lungs.
I cannot answer, but only
close my eyes and imagine myself
as the wind, free without skin,
or hair, or rising goose pimples.