Blowing in the Wind

The leaf turns, unbuttons its edges,  

drifts away from the heavy branch.  

Did you see it—its slow freedom?  

Some answers don't linger; they lift.  

A bird follows the curve of sky,  

searching nothing, carrying only air.  

The wind knows how to leave,  

how to return without being called.  

We press questions into the soil,  

wait for footsteps in the dust.  

Do you hear the trees whispering?  

Each bend of branch is a clue.  

I walk the edge of the river,  

my hands catching whispers of breath.  

They tell me nothing I don't know.  

The answer has always been moving.