Posts Tagged ‘wind’

Yellow light has become our new carpet.

Light, like grief, reveals

us. And the lilacs gather bees

as my friends gather affection.

Light is my sour token.

Wind is the other.


Here is this summer light, but

people would rather wait

for news of stabbings, shootings, and massacres-

though, being human, won’t admit it-

and choose shadow.

But this is ordinary.

Even ornithologists do not fully understand

the language of birds.

I cherish this moment:

when the wind rolls in

with floral perfume,

when the grass bends-

as if in genuflection- and ripples,

when the birds warble

and their chirps burst like bubbles

and their piccolo-bones sound

their ascent,

when the children’s laughs echo

and fill emptiness where the birds and wind cannot,

when the trees seem to be carved rocks,

and their buds burst into bloom like fireworks,

when the flowers split into color and scatter

adding new shades with the buds of the trees.

This moment is

exquisitely orchestrated.

Ideas form at

slightest turn of Wind-

otherwise, the Mind

and Page are left- barren.

Bird calls

Morning drum of sun

Bell of the telephone

Sirens for an emergency

Bubbles of thunder that burst

Camera flash of lightning

Flood of wind

The tree that grew at an angle

became one with the house

This morning is christened with sunlight.

Winter has turned the grass from emerald to gold.

Clouds and sky are inseparable,

their hues mix to palest blue.

Trees are awakened by gentle rushes of wind,

their branches wave like a parent

waves good-bye to their child on their first day of school.

The light comes and goes. It makes the grass shine,

remaining snow twinkle, street glisten, trees glow.

But when I go

out at night

and look at the stars,

my back presses against the snow

and I feel the feathery light touch

of the wind

and shiver,

and there’s shadowed white

on either side of me,

and only black-and-white night above,

yet all I can think about

is you

moving, or pulling me, closer

so we can try

to keep each other warm.

Wheat Fields Under Cloudy Skies

painting by Vincent van Gogh

Sky with its blue scales
does not daunt
pastoral fields- great pools
of emeralds, celadon-
the flowers at their fringes-
white stars, blood spots-
arcing under the wind.

The land is made of curves.
Clouds wheel in and out
of their own whiteness.
The wind is blurring
the world’s colors.
They are all within one another.

The Intonation- of the Wind-

scraped against my Ear-

but what Fortune that it was

the Last thing I would Hear-

And the Wind Howls out in anger,

such Feelings I repressed,

but the Universe- it Knows me-

and Wants to be noticed.

“I believe the universe wants to be noticed.” -from The Fault in Our Stars, by John Green

Bright blue sky

winks in its sapphire gauze,

teasing. The warmth

is yet to come. The escape

is yet to come.

When these white lozenges melt,

due to the sun’s palpable tongue,

and reveal their brown undercoats,

I will climb over them

and sing into the breezes

and become a wild man-

relishing in this freedom-

if only temporarily.