“I’ve waited for you,” were the first words he said.
“The wind, it’s been teasing me. It pulls me along,
Yet it has not led me anywhere.”

The other continually moves around him,
In and out of existence, with the breath of ghosts.
“That’s because you’re not moving your own feet.
Like the wind, you’re only going along,
Not really caring where you end up. For the wind
Has no home to go to.”

“So are you the wind?” he asks, stepping back.
“You move too much, it does not seem
You ever stay somewhere long enough to have a home.”

The other smiles a thin smile, darting here and there.
“Because my home is everywhere. Unlike you,
I don’t need such security.”

“Then I will stay where I am.” He said this as
He planted his feet to the ground, his body now stiff.
“There is no point in being dragged off to nowhere.”

“Oh, but is that what you truly want?” The other points
And laughs, carried through the currents like a leaf.
“So will you stay in one place, and just let time pass on?
Will you waste away like those old, boring trees?”

“I will make a home.” His voice is adamant, desperate.
“Wandering leads to nowhere. I need a place to call my own,
and time will grow with me here.”

“But its still the same. Look now, your feet are like roots.
Instead of the wandering wind, you are now a dreary tree.
You are stuck, and soon you will never be able to leave.”

“No,” he says again, but his voice cracked, showing the hollowness within.
“I can leave if I ever need to. I can move along with time.
How can you know?”

It frightened him as the one of wind moved their face to his own,
Letting out the breath of autumn night, its words lost in a cloud.
“Can you really not see the cobwebs that now decorates
Your hands? You must feel the spiders crawling along,
For they believe you are just another statue,
Locked in a place where time stands still,
Completely wasteful, completely useless.”

He looked down, and truly there were spider legs
Traveling across his skin with that disturbing touch.
He shifted, but he was stuck, as if in quicksand.
Except he was not sinking, he was merely trapped in place.
So he asks, “Are you doing this?”

A childish laughter that rings like a lonely bell.
“It is all your own. Your search has been in vain.
You are waiting for something to happen, something to change.
But you refuse to move on your own, your own legs
Are too much of an effort to move.
Whether you float with the wind,
Or stand with the trees.
You are merely just what you said before: waiting.”

The other gives a small wink before they are whisked away.
“You are simply waiting to die, for who has need
Of someone as useless as you?”

He loses his breath, feeling the wind brush him,
Abandoning him. Time will not hold, this was certain.
“I was waiting for hope,” he says in a whisper.
“I will still…wait for hope…to bring me home.
Maybe time will be kind to me…”

The wind, it is restless in its wanderings.
Names are forgotten, faces are a blur,
While the trees are ancient, slow in their musings,
With memories intact, concrete like stone.
They wait for the breeze to take their leaves,
As he waits for the wind to give him a word
Of comfort, that it was all not a fruitless waste.
Still he hopes, because it was all he had,
All he could hold on to.