Pine needles fall as the wind sets foot
On the evergreen towers.
The sound of her silence fills the air
Though she’s not as quiet as I often think.
For her breath reverberates off what she touches:
Branches, streams and eardrums;
I am audibly and visibly aware of her presence.
For even a faint breeze is filled
With peace and serenity—
Joy to those who labor,
But pain to those who bury themselves
Under the apathy of snow-filled wastelands.
Wind. Breath. Spirit. Pneuma.
She boldly eviscerates landscapes
In the mildest ways,
Whether in the torrent of a hurricane
Or in the slow waves that hardly touch shore,
Though they edge closer and closer each day.
A whisper:
That’s what she is.
Incomparable to a forest fire
Though she burns ever-hotter.
A fire caught up in our bones.
Shining. Raging.
Fuel for the quivering prophets
But a furnace for the shy.
