The gods have a way of whispering to the breeze
everything is going to be all right.
In the room I call my life
a white page holds the window open.
I keep trying to paint my pain
so I could peel it free.
It happens I’ve lost faith in the flower
pinned to this or that lapel.
Is it time to learn a new language
whose origins cannot be traced?
I am walking into a forest
and cannot see the sky.
For now I will repot the plants on the sill
and wave to the old man on the bench.
When he limps along the air follows
letting one know the earth is not going anywhere.
The breeze has a way of whispering to the gods
the mind is as scared as the heart.
Copyright © 2025 Howard Altmann. Originally published in Times Literary Supplement (October 3, 2025). Used with the permission of the poet.