The Wind

My old adversary from when

I was a spindly crippled boy,

Son of a severely crippled 

Father and a devout mother

Who frowned upon the very term

Crippled, preferring handicapped,

Odd gambling term for born-again

Fundamentalists such as them,

The wind is in a rush today,

The wind is in a rush again,

And I know what it has to say

As it buffets me in my den

Of ghastly voiced conversations

With the long-lost souls it's blown in:

Nothing. Oh very clever, boy,

You've been prattling about nothing

As if it were something since, when?

About the time you started this

Deranged skein of solipsistic 

Tergiversations you call poems?

What is nothing to you or you

To them, now nothing's bosom friends

Are the people you remember

A bit but barely, now and then?

Nothing. Inhale it and you win.

Exhale it and begin again.

There is no nothing, just the wind

Spinning beginnings wet with ends.