The wind talks to the land. It speaks calming words to the sun and loving words to the neck. It paces the dust, the wind. It lifts the child to hear its voice. It paces the lane, stepping across a yard and a dog and a field and a fence. 

The wind opens doors, a knock and a smile. It kicks a ball off the chain. It lifts a wall to the sky, with sweat and laughs.  A twist and it carries a scent.  Carving the dirt in descent and ascent, the wind weaves the ladder's legs. It moves the imitate mouth. It regales crowns and sweeps the scrap. It sings a song through the strings of the willing.

It caresses the hurt, comforts the tear, binds the broke. It speaks the language of no voice. It unlocks the doors of today into the land of forever. This wind holds up a man in a tree. It wipes the blood from his eyes. And it falls to the heads of the people below, the humble, the meek, and the mild.

All with a word, all with a name, all with the hand of the wind.

1 comment:

Garnett said...

My favorite authors are ones who require readings of multiple things in order to piece together who they are, what they are, and what they are for (so, Chesterton). This is kind of reminds me of him. The images you use leave me in some vague world where I think I agree and I think I love it and I think I recognize it and I think it resounds... I love that.