I was the god of the wind.
I puffed my cheeks and blew.
But the pebble was steady,
it didn’t waft away like dandelion spores.
It lay there in my hand,
it did not come to life like Adam,
it was sterile and unresponsive.
But it felt so good to blow,
to pretend to have the power
that burns in the sun and shines in the moon.
I was depressed afterwards.
I’d let myself down.
I’d allowed myself to get drunk
on my own well-being,
which was well and was being as far as it goes–
but which never goes very far.
Lee Evans lives in Maine and works for the local YMCA.