Older Whisper

More wind more.
When I lie awake with a warm spot beside me midday
I imagine how it might have been to be a whisper,
long ago sent traveling
where I might have traveled, who touched and where –
a brush against tender hair,
swept between the leaves and clouds, past sands
and greasy gears where a small part of me remains - there in the black grease around and around -
around.