I am named for the wind, which is driven to discover cracks and stir emptiness. Wind ventures wherever it can, slides into places people have forgotten. It shakes, scatters, uncovers, and upturns. It is equally fond of blackness and brilliance. If there is space to be filled, wind will work its way there. A wistful breeze blows when wind dreams of settling down.
Monday, 4 February
Waning Crescent Moon
Belly on the ground, I humble myself to nature. In bursts, the wind touches me so intimately that even un-sprouted hairs reach heavenward. The sunlight, mottled by the ancient oaks, plays in warm splotches across my cheek and neck. The waves of the Intracoastal Waterway ripple toward me, the gift of wind—all charge and no retreat.
MARYA SUMMERS writes and teaches in Southern California, but her roots are in South Florida, where she was a columnist for the alternative media and a poetry slam coach and competitor. Devoted to creativity as a spiritual path, she teaches mind-body-spirit inspired approaches to writing at www.whollycreative.com.
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