Wherever the Winds Blow

Wherever the winds blow,

there is meaning waiting

to be whittled in your bones.

No matter how brittle a bone may feel,

withered down to soft marrow

by the teeth of ravenous beasts.

Glass was once goo,

crafted over torch fire.

Turned red hot by the flame,

to become a work of art.

Fragile and fine.

Made by time and perceptive eyes.

Repetitively spun around the sun.

Find the glassblower, woodworker,

who whittles your bones to find the marrow-

and turns the marrow into glass.

Display yourself on the front porch of your soul,

wind chime.

Your exhale is sailing around the planet,

finding its way back to you.