Listen to the Wind

Listen to the wind an hour,
on the longest day of the year,
when the butterflies suck from bleeding blooms,
and the skies are blue as love.
Sit upon that hill an hour,
where the sun shines warm,
and the trees grow tall and strong,
sit, please sit, and listen...
Stay and pass the time that hour,
we could play a game of chess
or I could stroke your hair,
always listening for that wind.

You might not hear it speak.
It takes an ear for the wind,
and it would be false modesty if I said
I'm not unusually sensitive to it.
I hope you don't think I'm vain.
I hope you don't think I'm proud.
I just have an ear for the wind,
simple as that.
It tickles my ears
and helps me forget myself.
But from what I know of you,
you might have that ear too.

It whispers soft and speaks in riddles,
the shy-faced summer wind.
It's clever, and sweet,
but hates to impose,
hates to show up when it's not wanted.
You have to tease it out,
show it it's welcome
as a friend or a dark-eyed love.
Be kind to the wind, treat it gently,
and you'll learn which way it blows.
Though some have gone against the wind,
in love we find its better end.

Do you hear it?
Does it speak to you?
Do the words rush out in a torrent,
or does the wind hold in laconic reserve?
Never listen to the ones who say the wind never speaks.
They're full of hot air.
Talk to it, coax it, show it something new,
and it will speak if it wants to.
It's a fickle wind, after all,
and it blows where it will.
Do you hear it?
Does it speak to you?