Sunday

Hungry Wind



Yesterday a white wind ripped up and down the valleys all through the day.  If there was a place to go, it went.  Howling. Rubbing. Pushing. An operatic force raging just outside the door, it was a demented tenor on his most ambitious stage.

I stayed close to the window all day with it.  Listening. Watching a white banked blank of no sky no ground.  There was a lessening of some sort that came with it.  A release.

And it the day.  The one marked.  The one mostly tossed like a bit of gossip for new age newsreaders.  Omen from the far. Another reading would have the day mark a beginning.  A beginning accompanied by great climatic reckonings.  Wreckage.  Wonder has to be in there too.  It simply must.

Poetry and its makings is how I've read these past few days.  Donald Hall and his closely held world of all things poetic. His deep love shakes my own. I'll mark this new year by him and the wildest of wind.

If we can hold as truth the little we truly choose then we can also hold as true that in the self-made part of the day we definitely choose what those few things will be.  We may choose to bring poetry.  I'm beginning to understand the all encompassing poetic living breathing in every piece of art ever made. It is a beamy thing, the poetic.  It is a fat-bottomed girl.

Happy Holiday.

Zoey