Only the Mute Wind Knows
By John Herlihy

What do we see that with the eyes cannot be seen,
Rustling through tree branches never to be gleaned?
What do we hear with ears that should not be heard,
Howling as raging wolves on winter landscape stirred?
What gathers its strength into the force of a wild gale,
Imperiously moving schooners by filling out their sail?
What brings with it the force of breath, but has no life,
Full of speechless energy with an ability to cause strife?
What may behave as a little child with its every antic,
Tickling both young and old to become less pedantic?

What can induce emotions that are difficult to bear,
While making impassioned pleas as in a holy prayer?
What reaches down into our heart to make us feel,
A broad range of impressions that hardly seem real?
From where does the dust come to gather on our lips,
As we drink deep drafts of life with such tender sips.
What roams the landscape waiting to be perceived,
A gentle touch, a soft breath, sighs of the aggrieved?
The answer to the riddle only the mute wind knows,
That never speaks, never listens, so we only suppose.