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Posts Tagged ‘wind’

Today when the wind

wrests branches from trees,

cartwheels the watering can

snatches my peace,

I search in me

for a way to praise it,

praise a force strong enough

to rip trees from the earth,

push a ship cross the sea,

and shred what I think I know.

There is in me

a vehement storm

that I have tamed

for fifty years.

Is it any wonder

the wind makes me nervous—

not that I don’t know

how to relate to it,

but oh, because

I do.

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One in the Center

wind that tears

the limbs from the trees—

what is still, still still

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The wind, every day now, the

wind, the wind, the clamorous

wind, it lifts my dress and whips

my hair, the riotous wind, it

steals my words, unwinds my thoughts, the

demanding wind, the wilding wind, wind

that spreads fire, wind that unbranches the

cottonwood trees, the wind, the wind unlayers

me, invites me to find someplace still in me,

the wind, the relentless wind.

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In the spaces between

the words I didn’t write,

there was a pour of poison.

A wall-full of bricks.

The barbs from a hundred hooks.

I almost forgot how in the writing

some of that poison would

slip into me, how I despise

a wall, how each hook

demands a bit of my blood.

I spent hours not writing it,

used up reams of thoughts.

It was a relief when the wind

blew away all the words

except these: I understand.

Those, it let me read again

before they, too, blew away

and I didn’t chase after them.

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Invitation

 

 

 

The day dares me to become a tree,

dares me to root, to stay in one place,

to choose this here, to plant myself in this now,

to stretch down even as I reach up.

 

But there are gusts in me, and wild squalls,

whirling impulses that swirl and spin

and whisper to me to be current, be flow.

Winds in me that says go, darling, go.

 

And the day says stay to me. The day

says, find evergreen in the moment.

The day offers me its ground, its generous soil.

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One Resilience

my heart a cottonwood seed

landed on rock instead of soil—

love says, time to trust the wind

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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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