A Plea-- Answer

Here I stand,
feet root in the bronze earth,
wind blows up the bronze dirt.
Not a living thing but me.
Here to wonder. Here to be.

One small word.
Hello.
No return, or echo, or reply.
Only wind and dust and I.
Not a living soul but mine.
Hello?

Is that you?
Or am I making voices from this wind?
Am I now so willing just to bend
myself, just so, that I might never feel alone?
Am I making voices in this wind?