They are always gone
Whether with the stormy gale
Or about their Day
Who does the wind think it is?
When will change not want its way?
How long’s it been, baby
Since a wind came to your window
A breeze of the bilowy sort
And though it arrived loud
How many days, mama
The fog, it clogged your lungs
A freedive into the depths
And through its grey unknown
Never, during his entire mad, unmanaged spree
Could he see, though he claimed to look
Could he understand, though he claimed to know
Could he love, though he claimed a heart
I, then, left cut, scattered, chasing, winded
It is enough for me, the breeze today. To let it waft over me, and with it, bring a strength.
Beauty and curiosity, like a bleached-comb Cardinal, often ride on such air. This morning, though, wisdom arrived.
This morning, the wind asked for my resolve: A halt to crying over others’ big promises and small feet. The stop to the bruises I allow.
A decision that I am enough. The God who created me said so.
This weekend, a storm of understanding is predicted. An Eastern Bluebird cannot be far behind.
Left alone, on an empty grey pier on a lake on high, a warm windstorm making its way through her hair, its force able and willing to carry her away to further aloneness somewhere, and she, sufficiently calm and willing, is nevermore afraid…never more.
From the wind, I think
Or what’s riding on it
Despite any positive prophecy or revelation
Holy, scholarly, or both
It’s what troubles me to the core today
And my sisters too
So let us weep in any and all ways tonight
So the morrow we’ll feel as ourselves again
Oh go, wind
Leave at a speed faster than you are
And for once, have silence be your sound
How dare you awaken me
To the truth of the night
How dare you remind me
I am alone, and the chafe
Act sovereign, but know
I and the Sun
We will be here still, when you’re gone
I’ve not found a whimsy
Riding on The Wind
As the snowflake
Who knows The Direction
So stays the course
And I cannot go outside