Song of the Seven-Year-Old Poet

photo by Jupilu

Where does the wind come from?
where does the wind go?
If I were the wind,
I’d know, I’d know.
But I’ll not look it up
to question a bot,
I’ll ask my imagination
for all that it’s got.

I’ll ride with the wind
to wherever I want
No program to steer me,
no parent or aunt.
I’m free as the wind
to experience my leanings
to follow my longings,
and make my own meanings.

I’ll use your devices
by day, but by night
my dreams have more power
and a far brighter site.
I won’t cede my visions
I’ll defy all my life.
I’ll keep reaching, evolving,
creativity rife.

I’ll stretch my own seeing
and ride where it leads,
glad to grow human
and escape all compliance.
Where the wind comes from,
where the wind goes,
are questions far deeper
than answers of science.

©Susa Silvermarie 2026

photo by ivabalk