Who can say what words the wind has spoken,
when cast out in the night, it has its say?
Its speech slips out in whispers, clipped and broken.
Who can say
what language that it speaks, to curse, or pray;
and what translation key exists, what token,
to know its words, first heard at break of day?
So many lonely years it speaks, heartbroken,
unanswered in misunderstood wordplay.
What conversation passes with the woken?
Who can say?
12 MAY 2017
There is something liberating about
waking up early. Not too
early, mind you. But earlier
than you need to be
awake; and if you’re lucky,
early enough to see the
last of the night disappear
in the whitewash of the
morning sun, and to hear
the birds when they first
rise and start practicing their
songs, like violinists warming up
outside the concert hall for
a performance later that afternoon.
It’s a sense of freedom,
definitely — and an opportunity to
feel the earth’s slow glow
as it stretches its muscles
and wipes the traces of
sleep from its opening eyes.
29 DEC 2004