The Wind
Posted: 27 Apr 2023, 08:40
There was only ever movement.
Even if imperceptible it moved.
Undetected by simplistic senses with a sense of grandeur, it did move.
Moreover and again somewhere it rages, it battles, strikes and tears at that which would not move.
Somewhere it bites, burns, blunts and turns raw all that lays bare yet, somewhere it soothes.
It sings and hums and breathes deeply in, and out of its life came life and came death also.
Out of its breath came dancing leaves and clouds that raced across the moon it changed, finding great love.
Love in how unsettled it could be and why.
Why not dwell in unpredictability?
Reveal its true nature never to be known, as it was always without identity capable of treachery.
Always without dichotomy yet entirely opposed in actions that create and destroy, blow hot and cold and disassociate from its many personalities, some to be trusted, others so fearsome to be begged for mercy that would not come.
It would not come until the storm slept.
Until the waves crashed and the trees fell.
It would not come until structures acquiesced and crumbled under its weight.
It would not come until barren desert lifts from earth to nurture earth and vibrant forest.
There it will end. Only then with new beginning and peaceful whisper amongst the songs of heavy rain.
There it will rest. Exhausted and spent, it glides through the ruffled leaves of wizened trees. Old friends.
Wait for it there and listen for its return no matter how still. For there was only ever movement.
With eyes closed like sleeping storms, all know it to be so.
It did move.
The Wind.
By Michael Walker Bruce
Even if imperceptible it moved.
Undetected by simplistic senses with a sense of grandeur, it did move.
Moreover and again somewhere it rages, it battles, strikes and tears at that which would not move.
Somewhere it bites, burns, blunts and turns raw all that lays bare yet, somewhere it soothes.
It sings and hums and breathes deeply in, and out of its life came life and came death also.
Out of its breath came dancing leaves and clouds that raced across the moon it changed, finding great love.
Love in how unsettled it could be and why.
Why not dwell in unpredictability?
Reveal its true nature never to be known, as it was always without identity capable of treachery.
Always without dichotomy yet entirely opposed in actions that create and destroy, blow hot and cold and disassociate from its many personalities, some to be trusted, others so fearsome to be begged for mercy that would not come.
It would not come until the storm slept.
Until the waves crashed and the trees fell.
It would not come until structures acquiesced and crumbled under its weight.
It would not come until barren desert lifts from earth to nurture earth and vibrant forest.
There it will end. Only then with new beginning and peaceful whisper amongst the songs of heavy rain.
There it will rest. Exhausted and spent, it glides through the ruffled leaves of wizened trees. Old friends.
Wait for it there and listen for its return no matter how still. For there was only ever movement.
With eyes closed like sleeping storms, all know it to be so.
It did move.
The Wind.
By Michael Walker Bruce