I Am The Wind, I Must Move

by HemmingPlay


It was always thus:
The Father sun rises in the sky, the days lengthen, energy stirs the world.

I am born. And once born, I move.
I must move.

My siblings and I sweep through bare branches,
Laughing, whispering high and low through village
And city and farm and water,
We race and set power lines thrumming, push dead things
Against fence rows,
We sing along the high ridges and lift eagles
Above the forests, looking through their
Sharp eyes at the vista spread wide beneath.

I swirl in from Cuba, over the French Quarter and pick up
The mystique of fresh biegnets, snippets of jazz, the
Quiet sounds of suffering and joy,

I am Poltergust, mischievous imp of the air,
Slipping under spring dresses and flipping them upward,
Exposing long legs, hearing the squeals,
Snatching laughter, mussing girls’ hair, sprinting away…
Then I run across open water, over Biloxi, picking up steam over Georgia,
High over the haze of Birmingham, Atlanta,
Through the blue-tinged sky of the
Great Smokies, above the bear stirring from their dens;
Weaving and whipping the pine tops, the leafless oak,
Slithering up gullies and stroking
The undulating land, waking a lover, headed north,

I tickle the peaks of ancient, worn
Giants, feeling the rivers flowing to the sea beneath me,
Picking their scent up as I pass.

I am the wind, the messenger of Spring, and I do not rest,
My essence is movement; If I stop I die.
I bring flavors of of shrimp boats anchored in bayous,
Azalea blooms, the nectar of a billion sweet white blossoms.
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..

Roses  surrender
Their sweetness and magic to me, and I carry it proud.
I look across broad fields with their
Sprouting wheat washed by
Gulf hurricanes and soft night rains;
Of lob lolly pines, of
Winding rivers, flat acres where cotton will soon grow
Looking ahead to the rolling hills of Virginia
And the tight little valleys of Pennsylvania,
Where the daffodils are beginning to bloom and
Apple trees bud.

Wiggling along creek beds, teasing the trout, rippling the lakes,
Telling the fish to rise, that food is coming.
Harbinger of the new time, the warming land,

Moonlit tombstones and darkened church steeples
Feel my passing, but I cannot rest,
I feel my way under stars and sun, flitting this way and that–
Invisible, evidence of things unseen,
Pushing flights of geese northward, the robins—
The cycle begins anew.

I am the wind, I must move.
Feel me passing, laughing, roaring, singing of life renewed.

I must move.

If you enjoyed the poem. please leave a comment.

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

%d bloggers like this: