“Do you know," Peter asked, "why swallows build in the eaves of houses? It is to listen to the stories.” ~ J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan

4.29.2012

friday was a conversation with the wind


with the sand, with the coldness of water up to my neck, with the nothingness and everythingness of sun on my skin.  i'd taken a pad of white paper and a pen with black ink and i'd written WIND WIND WIND  in capital letters across the lines, the white pages flapping flailing floundering, wings of paper birds against the blue sky.  the wind whistled across the top of an open coke bottle, it splittered sand hard against my skin, it skittered frisbees and towels and it laughed in my ears while flying by.  i'd written 2 girls laughter joy of movement screams,  written black water, cold water, black water, the water seeming so from even a short distance, especially so when in it, dangling no toes on the bottom, seeming so with both eyes closed.

if i could take one moment into my hands . . .

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

see how the earth is laying you a map,
she said,
and though she didn't  say,
i had a conversation.

the wind drew the lines friday.  it will wear away the old and needs-to-be-gone stuff,  even the everyday slow breezes which steal it all away slowly slowly until it is suddenly gone and you are surprised your heart is still beating after all that grief, after all those questions; a hard fast wind will make you look up and say goodbye in a hurry and with regrets and you will run for shelter and maybe make it, but maybe not.  you may get caught and find yourself clinging to the past, and you will be damned exhausted when the wind plays itself out, but it will and you will lay down in whatever is left of your life and you will embrace the stones beneath your back against your shoulder, leaving marks on your skin and soul that no wind can erase, marks you will cherish, reminding you.

the wind drew friday's lines with sand, and then they too were gone.  had it been a dream of sand standing still, the conversation would be one of instability, but this sand was no dream and it was leaving me, slapping me, saying goodbye to what was, and i laughed back in its face and i let it go with goodbyes and good riddances and a few sad adioses shouted to its back, and then again ducked into the water and washed the past away.  a baptism of self.


i dried in the sun of a coming summer.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"if i could take one moment into my hands" from
the promised land by bruce springsteen

8 comments:

  1. oh, those two last lines.
    i love this, the truth in it, the grief and sadness, hope and joy all rolled up into an hourglass filled with sand.
    here's to a summer of play and maps and moments.

    ReplyDelete
  2. oh this really speaks of wind .. the sharpness of sand ...it can say so much

    ReplyDelete
  3. this sings from deep inside me
    as I read along
    and tickles my heart alive and awake
    and I thank you that:)
    -Jennifer

    ReplyDelete
  4. There is magic in resonating with in a song isn't there?

    ReplyDelete

come. sit under the emma tree & let's talk. i have cookies . . .