The Woolf

The shinier the thing…
the greater the pull,
the need to grab it.

The closer you get
the stronger the ache
to own it; know it.

Things that float past in the wind
unnoticed, brilliant strands
of plastic light.

They sing and dance to freedom.
They make love and laugh to music.

I want to float
to fit in seamlessly
and as the Woolf says
have no need to sparkle,
no need to shine.

For then
if I were noticed,
it would be in grace;
if I were loved,
it would make its first
cry through the wind.

If I were to cry
I would be grasped and held gingerly.
Noticed when needed.

And if I got caught in a tall, lovely tree
it would not ache
to explain why;
to explain me.

There is no me.
I want no me.
I want the wind.