The wind is everything and nothing.
It
blows brown bags down the street
to
keep the idea of carrying things
beyond
the grasp of an already frazzled woman,
whips
the hats off beggars who can ill afford
an
affront from the Invisible man, of all people.
It
knocks down perfectly good trees,
the
schoolyard bully who taunts because he can.
It
slams rain into windows like buckshot,
sends
floodwater gushing into small towns
filled
with Raggedy Ann and Andy people
now
too limp to file the insurance forms.
But
then, but then . . .
it
tousles the hair of a scorned woman
who
decides that her lover is an ass after all.
It
drives clouds that look like sailing ships
over
the schoolyard to fire imaginations
of
little men and women who seek the sea
and
dreams too tall for their present reach.
It
spins the mind of a poet into a sonnet
about
zephyrs and sprites and inspiration
blowing
off Olympus with power too great
to
be tamed by the hands of mortal men
who
wish the air to cool fevered brows
and
evaporate sweat worked up in the field.
It
is a mystery.
It
is nowhere to be seen and everywhere to be felt.
It
is mistress, god, and sledgehammer
that
can slam bones into powder and dust
or
caress cheeks and make love to naked skin
bathing
in a stream or daring to stand
in
a garden like Adam minus sin.
I
blink, turn my head, open my mouth,
and
my head is full of rushing ether,
all
my doors and windows open.
I
do not know what soul this might be
or
what it does except claim the right
to
circle and swirl and hold the world
in
its grasp or decide that it should go free.
~William Hammett
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