I can’t pick up the wind, but I keep trying. It’s absurd, I know. But that’s how I move through the world— reaching for things I can’t hold, things that refuse shape, things that slip through my fingers no matter how tightly I close them. There’s a part of me that still believes if I could just catch the wind for a second— in my hands, in my chest, in a poem— I’d finally understand something I’ve been circling my whole life. Maybe that’s the problem. Or maybe that’s the whole