A wisp of parchment floated in the breeze,
Swept lonely through the winding air,
He drifted through villages
And over rivers and hills,
For no one below could he appease.

For many a year he sailed
Along his solitary course.
Through wind and rain and snow
He traveled, until one day whisking up against a tree.
Now, flatly trapped upon its bark,
He’d met his fate, the parchment thought.
Here I lie – a scrap of paper left to die.

In scorn, he looked upon his body,
Decrying his fragile, haggard form.
But beneath the crumples, tears, and stains,
He noticed something he hadn’t before –
The faint ink lined across his breast.

Gazing upon these peculiar words,
He recalled his life before the wind,
Before weather had tattered and lightning singed,
When he had lived in comfort
Amongst books and scrolls,
In a haven of learning, and art,
But with an open window to the outside world.
From here he had made his journey.

Reflecting now on times long past,
He nestled into the oak, and slid
Calmly down towards the roots below,
Embracing the whispering silence of the trees.
For not was he a mere scrap of parchment
Who had wandered adrift across pasture and stream.
Nay, he was a Poem -
A voyage of rhythm and theme.