Still Learning To See

The Language of Wind

The past two days have been gorgeously wild and windy and this poem by my friend Katie, a marvelous writer and human being, say it all so well that it seemed foolish to not just re-blog it here. Thanks Katie.

Kate Spring

{In celebration of National Poetry Month, I’ll be posting a poem each weekday through the rest of April, and I invite you to join me!  Leave a link to your poem of the day in the comments section below.}

Flight

I.

This is what I know:

All energy is

Wild

All bodies are

Energy

Let yourself

unravel

Become the

howling moon

Learn the language

of the wind

II.

Some creatures can only

be seen in

darkness.

Go to them

Take your hunger

Your open mouth

Your heartache

Walk into the

darkness

Discover the song

of your soul

III.

We all have spirits—

Stone and Rivers,

Fox and Snakes

Reveal Yours

The wind is waiting

to lift your song

to tousle it in peoples’ hair

to weave it among needled branches of pine

to whistle it across the seas

IV.

Remember this—

You are of bedrock &

mountain streams

Still and…

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This entry was published on April 16, 2015 at 8:21 am and is filed under Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

One thought on “The Language of Wind

  1. Julia on said:

    What a lovely idea, John 🙂 Here’s one from Mary Oliver: http://www.poetseers.org/contemporary-poets/mary-oliver/mary-oliver-poems/when-death-comes/index.html

    When Death Comes

    When death comes
    like the hungry bear in autumn;
    when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse

    to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;
    when death comes
    like the measle-pox

    when death comes
    like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

    I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
    what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

    And therefore I look upon everything
    as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
    and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
    and I consider eternity as another possibility,

    and I think of each life as a flower, as common
    as a field daisy, and as singular,

    and each name a comfortable music in the mouth,
    tending, as all music does, toward silence,

    and each body a lion of courage, and something
    precious to the earth.

    When it’s over, I want to say all my life
    I was a bride married to amazement.
    I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

    When it’s over, I don’t want to wonder
    if I have made of my life something particular, and real.

    I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened,
    or full of argument.

    I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world

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