Singing to the Wind

You were the wind;
The gusts from the north and

Zephyrs that came from the ocean.
It was you. You were it.

All it took to find you
Was playing my voice on its strings.

I would sit at that stone,
Eyes so blood shot and puffy

That I could barely see your name
Carved into the slab in the grass.

Sometimes the sun would shine
And others the clouds would dominate,

But there was always the wind;
There to comfort and protect me.

All of this time I never knew
That talking to the air was talking to you.

I mentioned it to Dad yesterday
And he told me I was going insane,

That, twenty years of not being with you
Was slowly driving every particle

Of my pea-sized mind
Over a very large cliff of sanity.

But I know:
You've always watched over me,

I remember the days you would sing outside
With naught to care about.

Sitting next to your frail frame
I would watch, wait, and listen,

Asking at the end of your tune,
Who are you singing to?

And your favourite response:
I am merely singing to the wind.

I finally understand it
Now that your name is engraved

On a cheap granite stone with the date:
October 29th 1899 next to it.