Still the Wind (poem)

I stayed awake for the twenty-four

hours straddling two thousand seven

and two thousand eight.

That made my life seem epic.

In two thousand seven, I was a wind

of change, blown through every seam,

a virtual tornado of death, destruction,

demolition, degredation. And in the midst:

a whisper of love that sometimes seemed

an echo. I hope two thousand eight

will be better, though today I am filled

with a sense of I am still the wind.

I am still in motion. I am still

the same. And I am still awake.