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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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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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Katabatic

 

 

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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Could be you feel

like a tiny bird

flapping hard, hard

as you can

into the wind.

Though there

is no sign that says

Dead End,

you are not going

anywhere and can’t

imagine you ever will.

Could be

all that fluttering

exhausts you

until

you stop all that trying

and turn away

from whatever it is

you think

you are flying toward.

And then

perhaps

you understand—

not with your head,

with your whole being—

that wherever the wind

is going to go

it will go. Could be

you find yourself

saying yes to the wind,

the same wind,

you know this, that fills

your lungs.

Could be that it

is so beautiful,

this new kind of flying,

that you forget

to be frightened

that you do not know

what will happen next.

Could be you’ve never

been quite so aware

how infinite

the sky.

 

 

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Nature

(an erasure poem written by deleting most of the words in the article, “The Magnetic Nature of Disk Accretion onto Black Holes,” written by Jon Miller, John Raymond, Andy Fabian, Danny Steeghs, Jeroen Homan, Chris Reynolds, Michiel van der Klis and Rudy Wijnands in Nature, Volume 44, 22 June 2006. The words in this poem were taken from their article in this exact order. No words not found in the article were were added.)

 

Here we report that it is common to decompose,

strength taken from our figures.

This is the nature of wind.

We are scattering and scattering,

a luminous dilution.

Where is our value?

In our loss—

luminous instability.

O the wind to infinity,

the wind remarkably driven,

the wind that is difficult.

The wind to infinity,

clear wind, rare and crucial,

the wind, driving wind,

ubiquitous, illuminated,

accelerating wind.

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Tasting Them

just as I toss
these ashes of worry
to the breeze
the wind changes
direction

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What Doesn’t Change

The wind
transfers sand
and the breeze
snatches kites
and the squalls
displace leaves
and the gusts
topple signs,
and forever
yes, even
after I’m dust,
your breath
laced
into mine.

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Come, Wind

I am starving for winter.
There is too much bloom in me.
Tuck me into the season of emptiness
and shadow and deep, unfathomable snow.
Teach me to be unrecognizably myself,
the everything that isn’t, the generous
space between. Between what?
Let there be no one here who knows
how to answer. Let the wind reshape
anything it finds.

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when left in wind
the cloth unravels until it becomes
the wind

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What are the flags for?
I don’t know, but they flutter
frayed in the wind.
Perhaps our own undoing
is this beautiful.

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Bluster

All day the wind thrusts
against the house.
It does not want
to get in, it is doing
what wind does.
All day, these thoughts,
these driving thoughts.
But they are not
like wind. They want
very much
to get in.

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