Pine Needles in the Wind

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.

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