I remember,
trees and winds
swirling scents
down streets,
leaves making sounds
and scents making
memories.

The tumbled blade
that twists from force
leans back again.
Its bruises are
permenent,
but there are millions
of blades...
it would take a
magnifying glass
to find the wronged one.

I'm pummled by wind.
Scents of past creep up
and take out my ankles...
while leaf music
pushes me backwards.

Stumbling, and bruised,
i try to unbend,
I try to rise.
The marks left don't heal
though...
I'm just one
of a million,
Standing, or sitting
in a field
with winds...