The Wind

The wind travels such a distance in so little time.

If it had the chance, or the ability – would it stop to snap a polaroid every now and then?

Would it keep a scrapbook of every cheek it grazed, every set of lips it turned blue, every hand tucked inside a mitten it couldn’t break through?

Would it make special pages with stencils and stamps to commemorate the first day of summer when it rushed through a world awaking from the cold to the first warm kiss?

Would it tie the book together with a yellow ribbon it unwound from a branch, unaware it had been left there to help someone find their way home?

Or would it not bother at all, knowing what has been seen will be seen again millions of times over and that that was a honour that only it could claim?

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