Poem: Wind

 

Wind

 

a festival of hugs

defying loneliness

to calm and slide,

 

ethereal sculptor

never to desist, always 

to curve and swerve,

to reconfigure,

and to uphold the sky 

and to spill and pray and hum, 

sacred and sexual and redolent and effulgent,

this aerial ocean

 

of embryos-turning-ancient,

of cartwheels unkempt 

as they cavort through hints 

of understanding,

of art and soul,

of clues which flirt and 

somersault and evade,

those answers to everything,

what we crave to find,

free for the taking 

and yet lost, 

gone to fugues and incantatas,

shapeless beyond song,

a mirror for our desperate breaths,

misty as much as invisible, 

a truth sifted by our fingers and palms,

yes, we feel it but it is lost,

gone somewhere

into the dreams of swirls. 

 

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spellbinding