The Wind

The Wind

The wind comes early this morning.

It slips through the open window,

through the cracks in the door.

It bends the trees like they are made of water,

it carries the smell of rain from far away fields,

and the sharp tang of earth waking.

I stand still and let it find me.

It presses against my hair,

pulls at the sleeves of my coat,

and I feel it under my skin,

as if the world is breathing through me,

as if it knows all the corners I hide.

It moves across the rooftops,

through the narrow alleys,

and the sound it makes is not soft.

It is the sound of restless things,

things that will not stay in place,

things that will not rest.

The wind shakes the blossoms loose,

sends them spinning like small stars,

and I follow them with my eyes,

until they settle on the wet ground,

the petals shivering and wet,

like memory made visible.

I want to run with it,

to let it lift me,

to hear the world break open in my ears,

but it does not wait for anyone.

It moves on, always moving,

and I am left leaning into it,

hands out, breathing the hollow sky.

It carries voices I cannot name,

echoes from other towns, other streets,

the faint cries of birds or children,

or maybe only my own thoughts,

scattered and wild, carried along,

by something older than me.

And I listen to it,

feel it tug at the edges of my life,

and I know it is endless,

and I am small,

and I am part of its passing.