The wind it finds its way

The wind, it finds its way,

a thin, cold finger

around the old bathroom window.

A persistent whisper,

even through closed glass.

So the hardware store.

A tube of white, a gun.

My hand, steadying,

pressing the trigger.

A slow, controlled ribbon

emerging, thick and soft.

Filling the gap,

the fine crack between frame

and sill. Smoothing it

with a wet finger,

the cool, chemical slide.

Covering the old,

yellowed lines,

the failures of the past.

It dries, hardens.

A temporary truce.

Tomorrow, the wind

will try again.