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.