He presses and draws,

invisible yet deeply sensed,

this power that strips

the mind clean.

A moment of whipped

thoughts inside equally

stirred hair.

Blind to everything you believed

as well as your next step.

Careful, Wind is an impersonal lover.

He will dance with you,

he will bare your heart to the fullness of life,

but he might take your precious coverings in the process.

Depositing them on distant crags

as barren and empty as your newly bereft chest.

Sometimes you have to give up your favorite scarf,

your woolen armor flying off in the tempest,

to see how indomitable the forces of life.

To give you the perfect push out of your comfort zone.

 

Sometimes he is gentle, bearing sweet scents of budding roses.

 

Sometimes he is brought on prayers, carrying cool relief for bright hot days.

But sometimes Wind is a ravager,

stripping away everything but the essence.

Baring us to hollow bone,

until we are played awake like the reed flute.

Like the leaves dancing,

pulled at last from their homes,

delighting in the freedom that comes from letting everything go,

even our attachment to life,

and letting the force carry us beyond.

waiting for you to be what follows

when the lump in my throat dissolves.

When I finally check off everything on my to-do list,

for you to be 

there with hand outstretched,

inviting me on an adventure.

Wishing that your presence 

on my contacts list,

the last words we sent across the web

still visible,

frozen in time like your pixelated smile,

meant that I need only push a button

and wait for your response.

 

The ache of emptiness is its vastness.

the unquenchable yearning for it to be filled by something remembered,

something treasured.

Feeling the value

of what cannot be held.

Finding the fullness

hidden in every breath,

wisdom whispering at the edges,

like the echo of your laugh.

Abiding in the patient expectancy

of a life beholden

to cycles and seasons,

comings and leavings,

birthings and dyings,

I cannot help but look for you

when the spin stops

and my eyes turn to sky.

when my heart wonders who to call

to remind me of what is true.

But as wind can only be seen

by the way it dances the trees,

you only appear

in the salty warmth of my cheeks,

my poignant smile of gratitude

my pen on paper, witnessing

the unburdening of a heart 

that is bereft, and full, and following,

dissolving,

offering to life through art.

Sometimes we cannot look at a thing directly,

only its reflection.

The connection to Source made through pulsing perception.

Careless gaze an invitation

to our own destruction,

as Medusa rendered immobile

any who would not humble

themselves in the presence 

of the primal life force.

 

Sunlight is blinding straight on.

But we can witness it in rippling sparkling water,

growing food,

the brilliance of the Moon,

the effulgence of our songs.

Wind can only be seen by its effect.

The force of its motion only visible on what it has moved.

Music is intangible,

its essence undefinable.

It cannot be felt with skin,

or deciphered with mind,

yet it transforms time, ​

spirals into our cells,

entrains our hearts with rhythmic spells,

sparks awake our DNA

in a chain reaction of activation

until there is no telling

who is playing,

and who is being played.

 

Water is immobile on its own

yet ever flowing

on this planet beholden 

to gravity and slope,

wind and condensation,

perpetual evaporation,

rapid temperature fluctuation,

and all the things that give water her properties.

 

Life is made of life.

We are all built of the selfsame dust, 

dependent upon gravity and fire to become stars.

Nature knows no such thing as isolation.

This dimension is made of mirrors.

We are defined by our interpenetration

of everything.

It is the dappling of sunlight that gives it meaning

and allows our perceiving.

The wind-made waves that let us observe the water

as it reflects the bottomless sky.

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© 2018 by Medicinal Poetry