Posts Tagged ‘wind’

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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Blowing and gusting

and pushing and rushing

the wind tugs at every

surface it finds

and pries and whips

and shreds and flips,

overturns and tears

and ravages, wears down

and frays, unravels

and loosens in an entropy

dance, and to all

it touches—willow,

leaf, clothesline, fence,

it whispers

resilience, resilience.

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The leaves debate the wind.

We all know who will win.

There is no sound in the fall.


Whatever we might do here

amounts to little more than their rustling,

perhaps not even that.


Scratch of the branch

at the window. And then

it is silent.



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