There is a man in me who understands the language of Wind, but he disappears when I wake up.
He whispers things to me during the day,
points my attention to how much water is pooling in small divots on sandstone,
the new bird arrivals in our neighborhood,
how many fawns drift across our yard.
This morning, after I checked the time
he reminded me to lay back and feel the tidal flow inside my body
as this full moon passes.
Sometimes we meet,
when I sit quietly enough away from roads so the Wind language can be heard easily.
He tries to teach me, to quiet my mind,
I feel like I’m balancing a mountain on the head of a pin.
Sometimes I get still enough so I can hear Wind words,
not enough to really understand,
but enough to catch the feeling
of songs that started before birds flew or warm blooded people were here.
The words flow around and through each other,
speaking about the past and what will come,
all tumbling through this breeze.
The Rain taught me it’s song after my Dad died, so I know I can learn these things,
somehow.
We are wrapped in these songs, oldest and newest,
how people came to be and how we will pass,
told all at once,
in one great breath
from before time.
When this poem is finished I’ll fold it into a small envelope and bury it a few inches down,
out by where we plant wild flowers and lay our small pets to rest.
I’ll ask that he shares this with Wind,
letting me know through dreams what Wind thinks about it,
secretly hoping I’ll be taken on an adventure that this time
I can remember.
