The Wind

In a journal I kept at 20, I copied a poem by May Swenson, one I still love:

Hearing the Wind at Night

I heard the wind coming,
transferred from tree to tree.
I heard the leaves
swish, wishing to be free

to come with the wind, yet wanting to stay
with the boughs like sleeves.
The wind was a green ghost.
Possessed of tearing breath

the body of each tree
whined, a whipping post,
then straightened and resumed
its vegetable oath.

I heard the wind going
and it went wild.
Somewhere the forest threw itself
into tantrum like a child.

I heard the trees tossing
in punishment or grief,
then sighing and soughing,
soothing themselves to sleep.

Lines from this poem frequently come to me, especially in windy weather, and sure enough, all my plans for today came to naught because Kipper and I were almost blown off the top of the long flight of stairs down to the beach and instead turned back home. . . where I made a couple of butterflies to send to the Houston Holocaust Museum via Canada (thanks to Christine, who recommended I look at HeartSongs, where I saw the project's logo), another example of the seemingly simple yet immensely complex web of associations (through The Web, of course) through which we connect to each other.

And to further illustrate this synchronicity of connectivity, today began with my realizing that writing as relationship----whether in learning more about oneself or in relating with and to others----feels so true that I don't feel compelled to argue with myself about it. . . not now, anyway. (Yes, I realize that "writing as an aspect of relationship" is a truism, but even the obvious sometimes doesn't feel true unless one can personally relate.)