Rarely are windows open at this height,
For some unwary, grieving soul just might,
When burdened by the hideous human blight,
Attend the whispering, seductive night:
"Come out, my love; I'll make it all, all right.
The summer grass smells sweet; the stars shine bright.
Lean out and let my breeze caress you, light
And soft. Upon the window sill alight.
Let go. Come in to me, my love; take flight."
If you give in to this most dire need
To make a life of crushing cares recede,
The wind will sing and soothe you at that speed.
Such kindness. You'll just about forget to bleed.
Copyright 2013 by Ike Wassom. All rights reserved.