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Posts Tagged ‘wind’

 

 

 

You could leave life right now. Let that determine what you do and say and think.

            —Marcus Aurelius, Meditations

 

 

And though the leaves blush golden and red

and though the sun cups my face like a hand

and though the chill air makes me catch my breath

 

the wind whispers, friend, remember your death.

And I feel so deeply, so wildly alive

as I climb the hill, slight burn in my thighs

 

but I cannot pretend I am deaf

as the wind whispers soft, remember your death.

The Roman generals had their slaves

 

whisper to them in their moments of greatness,

remember your death—even as the crowds cheered—

to help them remember be humble, be here.

 

And the wind whispers yes, whispers yes to me.

And reminds me to take each step gratefully.

Remember your death, it says. Live now.

 

And with every step, though I don’t know to whom,

I say thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you.

 

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Trickster Ridge

 

 

At the edge of the cliff

the wind tousles the snakeweed

into a riot of waving fronds.

 

They dance and still, and dance

and still, resettling into their natural state

before being danced again.

 

All morning I have been thinking

about resilience, or more rightly,

resilience has visited me,

 

not as a thought, more as

a mandate. And here, the snakeweed,

golden flowers lit by sun,

 

leads me to the edge of the cliff

where the wind whips everything

that dares show up,

 

and the snakeweed—

stirred, disturbed and rearranged—

has never been more itself.

 

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Let’s play, said the wind.
Go away, I said.
Let’s play, said the wind.
Not today, I said.
Right now, said the wind.
But how? I said.
And the wind made a kite
of my auburn hair
and my words of dissent
skipped away on the air.
Play more? said the wind.
Um, sure? I said.
The wind played me like chimes,
played both fierce and tender,
and it whipped me and kissed me
into surrender.
You’ve changed, said the wind.
Rearranged, I said.
Play again? said the wind.
Yes, friend, I said.

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One Time Warp

 

 

 

leaning into a wind

from twenty years ago—

still tugging tears from my eyes

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One Note from the Wind

 

 

 

 

another morning,

another chance to be

utterly rearranged

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One Blustery

 

 

enormous wind—

hanging on to my smile

so it won’t blow away

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Hymn to What’s Bare

 

 

 

Last night’s wind scoured

the trees and stripped

their boughs—

it is easy in today’s calm

to wish my soul had been out

in the woods last night.

Emptiness reveals more

than all the gold, all design.

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There are monks who sing

for the laity—May you be happy,

and today I sing it, too,

though I have not been

anointed and have no special

sway, but I stitch my song

into the morning’s ferocious wind

and send it everywhere,

May you be well.

The wind rips the words

from my lips. I sing them

again. This is all

we have in this world,

the way we choose

to meet it.

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wind so strong

the only part of me unwhipped

is my wonder

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something urgent in the way

the wind pulls on my skirt,

less like a child and more

like a lover, hungry, saying,

now, right now, it doesn’t

matter who’s looking,

we could do it

right here

 

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