I Am The Wind. I Bring News
T’was always thus:
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 just move.
My siblings and I, spawned from sun-boiled shallow waters and bare slopes,
Sweep through budding branches,
Laughing, whispering high and low through village
And city and farm and thicket,
We stroke and excite power lines ’til they thrum like cello strings,
Or an impatient lover, eager for more attention.
We pick up debris left behind by melted drifts,
Push dead things against fence rows,
Stir the leftovers of a dead year and move them out of the way;
Sing along the high ridges and chitter through the wide wings of eagles,
Pushing these great one higher, circling into the empty realm
Above the forests, all the while looking through their
Sharp eyes at the vista spread wide beneath,
One of our brethren lifting, bringing them the scent of rabbit.
I swirl in from Cuba, over Key West sampling seafood on open fires,
Bourbon and weed soaking the air near the ground,
Banking west up and low to whip foam from the Gulf waters,
Soak up salt and fish and sadness of too many losses,
Pause over the French Quarter and sniff
The mystique of fresh biegnets, snippets of jazz, the
Quiet sounds of suffering and joy, despair and hope.
For I am Poltergust, mischievous imp of no home,
Slipping with bald boldness under spring dresses, flipping them upward,
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 do not 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 sing of life renewed.
Feel me work. I must work.