I was seven and mistress of the wind..

I was seven and mistress of the wind.
A command from my outstretched hand
charged the grass to dance
and butterflies to rest on my finger.

Then I forgot the wind.

He meant no more than the boy
who’d steal up to my locker
mash fingers into a crafted fluff of bangs
victory judged by the degree of my stomp and huff.

These days I smile when he visits
my porch and calls the chimes to sing.