The house where the wind lives

Has no doors. The windows whisper
To the sagebrush nestled beneath them:
Hold fast, my loves. Hold fast.
Behind the weathered wooden walls
High plains stretch langurously
Their flat bodies supine beneath
The wide pale sky
Mornings, the wind has breakfast
With her lover, cloud.
Cloud’s tendril fingers reach
For sage blossoms
Which wind blows across
The sagging table. She smiles.
Cloud shakes his head, and droplets
Of rain fall from his white hair.
This is the house where the wind lives
He reminds himself. And smiles back.