Ideal

I watched the one with windswept eyes,
whose smile had withstood the storm,
that was the one who wrenched my gaze
away from future’s maps and tools
and carved in me a thirst for winds.

The winds of swooping valleys and
defiant cliffs massaged my throat,
yet thirsty I am for more of it
and more of everything around,

for something even past that face
whose eyes have never met with mine;
we wrestled with the same warm wind
but lost our way on trails apart.