The voice begins as a breeze, soft like the flutter
Of flightless wings on chicks, settling among the frail
Willows, gently moving the aching branches of early
Spring in a random harmony of motion. I wait for the
Braille song of the wind to whisper its single melody,
But my wanting ears confound its simple hearing.
Oh, I have desire for wind, the kind that roars into place,
That gives evidence of power. I have heard the wind speak,
Seen it wrestle the branches until I feared for the trees.
But this morning, in the brilliant calm of orange sunrise,
I am blind for sight with sound. The bare black soil lies
Hard and cold, its straight-line furrows windswept.
Beyond my walls, past my silicon panels of perception,
The wind now sails. I watch sparrows sling themselves
To high limbs, never falling to the ground, translated on
Unseen current. If only I could get off the ground,
Believe in the wind enough to grasp its full embrace,
I would let it lift me, beyond the treetops.
Come, the constant wind beckons. Venture outside
Your little box to feel the pull of fresh cool air against
Your face, raising you again in warm tingling sensation.
Let me speak to your horizon of places far away and often
Dreamed of! There I shall give you unspeakable gifts:
Children’s voices ringing like the bells of towers singing.