15 October 2018

Confessions: Wind

I first saw her tossing about the tops of Douglas firs
and heard her as she rushed around the corners of our house
and when she stretched and twirled chimney smoke
or tossed the rain up underneath the eaves.

And later she would whisper in my ear and muss my hair
and rock the bows and sway the trunks of trees I liked to climb;
I saw her drawing curtains 'cross the moon,
and felt her wringing raindrops from the clouds.

I've seen her fingertips ripple a sunset's reflection;
sometimes she sprinkles sun's light like glitter on the water.
She passes gently down the rows of hay,
and sometimes spins and rearranges them.

Stormy nights in Oklahoma she piles cars and scours ground;
she pushes sand across a road and dust half 'round the world;
part of this place and changing its shape too,
she comes and goes and in my mind remains.

I've known her refreshing sigh and felt her icy fingers;
she murmurs of grandpa's tales and of drumbeats long ago;
she's baptized me in salty ocean spray
and tugged at all the kite strings in my heart.

She smells of spring—of sage, of lilacs, and of fresh turned earth;
no matter in what distant place I've ever found myself,
her laughter echoes through these aspen trees,
she whispers 'gainst my cheek, and I am home.

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