Whistling

The sun is warm

And the air is calm.

The unusual silence of spring

Pervades my thoughts, clears my mind.

There’s a slight breeze,

Like a current of satisfaction

It whispers by me, kisses me on the cheek,

And then floats on to kiss another or hug the flowers

But did something ride the breeze?

Something is there that wasn’t there moments before,

Someone new, someone who came in on the wind—

A homeless man, dressed in dirty beige,

Carrying a tan blanket and a brown plastic grocery bag…

His only belongings…

And he’s whistling.

What’s that happy tune?

Or is it happy?  Three notes and he stops,

Like there’s a long rest or a caesura.

But then he purses his lips and continues his happy song,

And it is happy…at least I think so.

His melody fills the sleepy spring silence,

Riding the breeze like butterflies in the wind,

The notes catch my ear the way a monarch kisses a tulip.

Whistling homeless man,

What’s that tune?

Is it something your mother used to hum

In the mornings to wake you up for school?

Or is it that song that played in the background of your first kiss?

Or perhaps it’s an echo of your father’s old whistle…

Does it take you back?

Does whistling this tune make you happy,

Make you remember, give you a home?

Why do you whistle so?

Then the breeze blows by again,

Whispers of “home” beckoning my ear,

And like that you’re gone.

I look, but there is no more beige

And the melody is but a faint echo,

Drifting on the silent breeze of a spring afternoon…

Did it really happen?

Or was it just a warm dream?

A languid connection of life and hope, reality and insanity?

Then I change my course and head home,

Whistling a tune I heard somewhere…

I think my grandma used to sing it.

The breeze blows by once more,

And I’m gone.