A Certain Type of Practice

The wind wends and winds, wedges and binds, comes then goes, moving forever away.

The wind covers, uncovers, discovers, gives and takes, unseen except for what it does, like the director in a film.

The wind in sculpting rocks shows the path it had been.

The wind strolls through the garden talking to itself.

The wind on soft balmy evenings swirls its flouncy skirt with leaves fallen in the yard.

The wind finds in its pockets secrets like stamps or souvenirs.

The wind gambols on the belly of the ocean to produce waves.

The wind snuggles against the chest of the hill and waits to meet the sun.

The wind is tactile.

The wind breaks the hinge on the window that now flaps the house.

The wind clenches the wintry face into a fist and leaves summer skin raw like erosion.

The wind feeds the lust with which fire ravages the bush then, as partner-in-crime, signs its name in smoke.

The strength of the wind is measured by the weight it carries for how far it has come.

The wind peels off roofs and knocks down trees and drives buses into beds.

The wind is a child whose Lego-town keeps changing.

The calm, withering eye of the spinning wind beneath the black shantung sheath.

The wind has died countless deaths; its grave is its cradle.

The wind is air on eternal exile.

The wind opens the curtain of clouds so the moon shows her face like a lover through sky’s hole.

The wind can make days dark and nights bright.

The wind: the tide on which birds surf, the belt that conveys rubbish, the mid-wife who delivers life into another world.

The wind at the crack of dawn blinks into the first wet light.

At night, the wind rolls on its side, breathing gently, or talking, as primitives in hieroglyphics, dreams impossible to interpret.

Unheeding, unnerving, boring: the wind.

The wind finds company in the swinging strips of bark slung there over a branch, like best friends in pig-tails dangling their legs.

The wind erases footprints on sand but deepens marks on stone.

The wind is a travel-machine; it takes you back with a remembering smell or sound to that person or place you’ve left behind.

The melancholy of the wind is felt only in the tune that floats from its naked fingers as if Clara were premiering her late husband Schumann’s only concerto.

The wind picks up this poem, nestles the words momentarily in its bosom, then over the sea scatters them as ash.

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