So that gypsy lady broke up her camp
and braved the mountain of love’s attributes
and she overcame all obstacles
on her way to that far away peak.
She planted herself for a moment or two
in the soil of emotion and knowledge
to feel the wind of celebration
blow happily through her hair.
Of course she knew as everyone does
that peaks are and will always be
opposed to life’s dictates
that decree an abode on flat level ground.
But for that one moment or two
how glorious it was to be free
and speak the words of love’s honesty
even if unto the deaf.
Step by step she retraced her steps
with more baggage than ever before
until at the midway stage she stopped
to dispense with the feel and knowing.
But the wind had followed her every move
waiting to pick up her discards
and push them along behind her
to make light weight of her memory.
And how like the wind to pick up speed
and deposit it all at her feet
to trip her up, again, again,
on her journey to flat level ground.
She’s not there yet; she loiters in caves
in attempts to escape the wind
that whirls and swirls her discards
at her one and only exit point.
Unless before time she escapes
that gypsy lady will be as dust
and blow with the wind and her discards
into the land of “The End” …
but time, yes, time; what is time
that never forever has stilled the wind?