memory of the wind,
its curve about your face,
long reach across the prairie.
Note its tone by the length
of the grass. Earth the instrument
bends blue with the long wail
of distance, the brush of sunlight
on the atmosphere and the swirl of liquid stone
far beneath our feet. The most solid among us
moves with a stirring breath,
flows in pulsing tides,
holds a hidden charge of electrons in flux
we scarcely know ourselves.
We carry Whitman’s teeming multitudes within us
and bend with the solitary figure behind a bedroom door
scribbling metaphoric messages
to some unknown emissary
of the wind.
For dVerse Poets’ Pub Open Link Night #44