Heres a poem I wrote driving through Arizona last week. Its more like prose: The wind has a name that sings to me. She is pure, unspoiled in this desert land, In March when she is most actively seeking, She fills every empty space howling for answers. A quiet tempest of incessant wind desperately searching for a reason to be, Someday she will find what she is looking for and need blow no more. There will be peace at the end of the day when she finds herself where she started, having blown dust to the edge of the ocean, moon and beyond. I am only a man, a complete stranger and she just blows right through me making my soul dance and sing, I walk alone through the dark at a highway rest stop, in her fleeting presence. On a cold and clear night her spirit makes the stars dance too. Its strange how such a cold wind can warm a frozen heart, I wonder if a warm heart could thaw her icy wind. My mind wanders and I tire pondering the paradox. Quickly making way to the public restroom the overriding question of the moment has become one of urgent survival - Why do I always have to pee so bad when the wind blows cold? Finding my way there I thank God for simple things. Going back to sleep in the backseat of my car I take shelter from the wind and her chilling bite. A wise man once said, Too much of a good thing is bad for you baby but, . . There is always a but! I know if I couldnt deal with her harsh winter, She wouldnt stick around in the summer to help me endure the hot desert sun. So I fall off to sleep dreaming of warm naked breezes blowing. Waking at dawn to a surreal orange glow in the east surrounding silhouettes of distant flat top buttes right out of a Road Runner cartoon, I continue my journey and drive on along the valley floor ringed by huge, natural monoliths represented as purple mountains on license plates. As the day heats up and my awestruck wonder begins to wear off I wonder where the wind is today, where she came from and where shes going. No man owns the wind. She cant be grasped or taken. She must give herself willingly. I have no idea where she came from or why or if shell come back. She blows in any direction she pleases, making up her own mind where she will go, popping up here and there as predictably as winning in Vegas. Hoping for her return I look for signs that herald her approach - long, tall cactus gently swaying and birds flying off course. Why, you may ask, do you stop to wait? Happiness comes from within! Yes I know what you say but only she can bring the comfort I seek. She fills the sails that can take our ship wherever she wants to go. I just steer the thing in the direction she takes it! I built the hammock but she rocks it with her soft stroke. On a sweltering summer afternoon in the desert her gentle voice cools and comforts me when I suffer. Running her fingers through my hair as she caresses palm trees, her song makes the clouds part and brings the stars down to Earth. As I strum on my guitar, playing to a vast audience of rocks I realize that I may play the instruments that lend her harmony, but her Melody provides the music that sings to my soul.
Posted on: Fri, 21 Mar 2014 08:21:54 +0000
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