I Am The Wind. I Bring News
The sun rises in the sky, the days lengthen,
Energy stirs the world.
I am born of heat and light and urgency.
And once born, I move.
I must move. I must. Always.
My siblings and I, spawned from sun-boiled
salty waters, stubbled fields and bare slopes,
Sweep through budding branches,
Laughing, whispering high and low through village
And city and farm and thicket.
We stroke power lines ’til they purr,
Like an impatient lover, eager for more attention.
We pick up debris left behind by melted drifts,
those forgotten plough mountains. We
Push bits of last year against fence rows,
Stir the leftovers and move them out of the way.
We sing among the teeth of mountain ridges,
bringing warmth and change to the noses
of critters that live among the rocks.
We caress and push on the wide wings of eagles,
higher and higher, into the empty realms where
space is a magenta darkness above, and the
edges of the Earth curve; high
Above the forests, looking down
with uncanny clarity
at the vista spread wide.
One of us carries upward
a hint of the
I swirl in from Cuba, over Key West sampling seafood
cooking on the beach on charcoal fires,
bourbon and weed in the air near the ground.
We come, never pausing, sweeping it all up in a great inhaling;
banking west and low to whip foam in the Gulf ,
soak up salt and fish and the sadness of too many losses,
Pause over the French Quarter , Canal and Decatur and Bourbon
tripping up the drunks and ruffling the flowers
in the baskets on the iron railings of the balconies,
absorbing the music that comes from open doorways,
and from the street, children and oldsters, playing, playing,
the guitar or violin case open, in case you want to
pay for their compulsion, to play for you. To play on.
My siblings and I can’t stay long, but we go around
this old city a few times. There is so much.
The mystique of fresh biegnets, snippets of jazz, the
Quiet sounds of suffering and joy, despair and hope.
But the music plays on, and everyone knows the Gulf
is rising, and another storm will come.
It will come.
So play on. .
I am Poltergust, mischievous imp with no home, and every home,
Slipping under spring dresses, flipping them up,
Exposing long legs and secrets, hearing the squeals,
Snatching laughter, mussing girls’ hair, speeding away…
Then I run across open water, over Biloxi, picking up speed over Georgia,
Rise high over the haze of Birmingham, Atlanta,
Caress the peaks and blue-tinged sky of the
Great Smokies, stroke the bear stirring from her den;
Weaving and whipping the pine tops, the leafless oak,
Slithering up gullies and stroking
The undulating land, an invisible loving touch
waking a lover from a languid sleep, headed north.
I am Poltergust, I bring news.
I tickle the peaks of ancient, worn
Mountains shrouded in trees, feeling the rivers flowing to the sea beneath me,
Plucking their scent as I pass,
Spreading it far and wide.
“Do you smell that?” I say.
“Do you know what this means? Are you ready?”.
I am the wind, and I cannot rest,
If I stop, I die.
I am the Resurrection, the soul of revolution,
the hammer of ancient change coming again.
I bring the flavors of shrimp boats anchored in bayous,
The musk and rot of crocodile nests baking in the swamp;
Of azalea blooms, the nectar of a trillion sweet white blossoms,
Of trumpet vines and camellia and strawberries and oranges and pine sap.
I sing the song of rebirth and carry the news far and wide.
I move, or I die, but while I live I rejoice and whisper
Glad tidings of great joy, that the cold deadness is passing..
Their sweetness and magic to me, and I carry it proud.
I look across broad fields with their
Sprouting wheat and cotton and corn, washed by
Gulf hurricanes and soft night rains;
Of lob lolly pines, of
Winding rivers, flat acres where rice will soon grow,
Looking ahead to the rolling hills of Virginia
And the tight, rugged little valleys of Pennsylvania,
Where the daffodils are beginning to bloom and
Apple trees bud, and white Dogwood dots the bare slopes
And redbud trees extrude blood-red blooms with
The first color in months of grey.
Wiggling along creek beds, teasing the trout,
daring them to rise, rippling the lakes,
Telling the fish to feed, to strike, to breed, that food is coming.
Harbinger of the new time, the warming land,
Moonlit tombstones and darkened church steeples
Feel my passing, but I never rest,
I feel my way under stars and sun, flitting this way and that–
Invisible, powerful, insistent, personal: evidence of things unseen,
Pushing flights of geese northward, the robins,
The cycle begins anew.
I am the wind, and I must move.
I am life returned to barren lands.
Feel me. I must work.