The wind and the dawn arrived together this morning, the light quietly, and the wind with more bluster. The deep tolling of a wind chime, and the soprano sound of mine on the porch combine to greet the north wind with music, the deep trailing sound of a jet the continuo. The air is clear, no fog, sharp as a lens magnifying the blue horizon, bringing it closer, whitening the edges, while overhead the sky falls away from the earth in a long continuous ribbon of light. Chill has settled into the cracks, and seeped through the walls. Hunched in the middle of the yard is a squirrel, tail flashing, waiting for something or just restless.
I am the Wind
I am the wind that wavers,
You are the certain land;
I am the shadow that passes
Over the sand.
I am the leaf that quivers,
You, the unshaken tree;
You are the stars that are steadfast,
I am the sea.
You are the light eternal—
Like a torch I shall die.
You are the surge of deep music,
I but a cry!
Zoe Akins
Is there more merit in one over another? Is it better to be wind or the certain land? Or is each its own essence needing no approval or agreement? When you start a comparison, you begin to include more and more, and the metaphor goes where the reader takes it. Here who could choose between the stars and the sea? The leaf and the tree? Music or the human voice? Wind or the land it moves over? I want to be wind one minute and the eternal light another, first the music then the voice, or who would not want to be as a star on a dark night, or ocean roused and rowdy joining with the shore? I grant myself the power to be all of that or something more, or something small and intimate. What every human heart holds is everything there is, it's acknowledging that possibility that comes slow, and there are days when I want to be something wild, and hours when I want nothing more than hot tea on a cold morning, the light at my window, and the wind rushing down from a great height to scatter gold coins of leaves, the riches of fall.
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