Aeolian Mark

The wind makes itself,
I tell my toddler daughter
Who holds me responsible.
"Papa do the wind!
Papa do the wind!"
Cute, eh? Hardly poetic
Beyond the greeting card sense,

Anymore than my reply
Is metaphysically true
Beyond the sophomoric sense.
But let's indulge both of us,
You and I.  The wind sweeps us
Off the porch so easily,
Blowing away our drawings,

Just when we were getting good,
We thought, at doodling faces,
Chunking rhymes, and we deserve
Our own congratulations
And those of close relatives
Willing to call us brilliant,
Omnipotent, insightful,

Everything we reinvent
For ourselves as religion
Which is, shall we confess it,
The best excuse we can make
For wanting to think the wind
Anything to do with us
Our family, our crayons.