She was the wind – 
a gust that had wandered the world for so long,
sweeping through wastelands,
soaring over sorrow and love,
searching for a land that could make her stay.

He was the earth –
steady, slow, deeply buried, and silent.
He did not speak, but he was always there,
holding time, nurturing roots.

They met on a wordless autumn day.
The wind caressed his cracks and quiet,
and the earth accepted her breath and her wandering spirit.
Everything was so still –
as if fate itself had held its breath.

But the wind came from afar, rootless and free,
while the earth was buried deep, unmoving.

They were children of different realms:
one a wanderer, the other a keeper.
One raced through freedom and the unknown,
the other belonged to steadiness and vows.

The wind fell in love with the earth –
with his calm, his wordless warmth.
And the earth –
he cherished the freshness, the aliveness of her passing touch.
But the wind was never meant to stay.

The day she left, the rain began to fall.
She knew –
the earth would not chase, could not chase.

He once wondered:
If only he were a cloud, might he have stayed near?
If only she were a seed, might she have taken root?
But she was the wind – born for the faraway.

And the earth? He remains –
quietly waiting
for the next wind to pass,
for the next flower to bloom.

Only the rain knows
how deeply they once met –
between the rising and the resting of the wind.