I Can’t Pick Up the Wind, But I Keep Trying

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 point.

I don’t always know what I’m reaching for,

only that it moves,

and I move with it.

Maybe this is how I write.

Maybe this is how I live.

Trying to touch the unholdable.

Trying to name the thing that won’t sit still.

Trying, always trying,

even when the wind won’t be caught.