There is no calm before the storm.
This tempest is neverending. These brief moments of peace are only that.
I am the pupil, swollen by too much light, staring up into the fickle sun.
I still reside within the storm. On the horizon, I see the dark spinning clouds as they draw near to envelop me again.
I have been a sower of the wind.
I have cast my dreams like seeds into the blistering sky.
Now I must succumb to what I have become.
I am the whirlwind reaper.
wind of constancy
blowing in from the sea
pushing away the lethargy
that has so encumbered me
within this mortal body
i listen for divinity
in this wind of constancy
a call to be free
on windy days
when the swallows are swept across the sky like smoke
i too find my flight interrupted
and the subtle turn in my migration is corrected
o for the wisdom to accept correction
to cease this mindless flapping
and simply soar
soon I will need to face the wind howling outside rumbling like an invisible train between the houses here
harbinger of a new weather pattern moving in
In my heart as well?
I know not only that there is a kind of expectation hovering there
Spinning carried away like a balloon released by a mourning child’s hand out past the clutching trees until it is free dark against the boiling clouds
a speck in the eye of a loving God
in the background
of quiet conversation
across the phone line
in talks with kin
of swirling snow
in a not so distant dominion
an unwelcome companion
always within earshot
a rumbling din
seeking to lose me to
this everblowing wind