I can't sleep…
…Under bamboos that sing to the wind
and wall the cathedral sky,
my body surges…
A rush of balsam wind boils the clouds,
roils my shirt, my skin,
enfleshing the living breath, deep and long.
Like weeding the garden: hands become weeds,
become shovel, become time.
Body becomes rhythm, becomes power;
becomes wind, becomes Mind.
A cotton cloud of ibises float after.
—Betsy Lagana Bluangtook
Notes: Poem – Thank you Beth at Alive on All Channels. Photo – Bamboo by kristof casteren
it is…quiet…morning
warm sunlight and cool,
crisp air streams through my open window.
my room is heavy with the smell
of flowers, vines, grass, and growth.
the only sounds are of…
a gentle wind chime,
and my own steady, deep breathing.
~ L. J. Buchanan, from Conceptual solitude
Photo: Heinz-Dieter with morning breeze
Wonderful a fistful of snow in the mouths
of men suffering summer heat
Wonderful the spring winds
for mariners who long to set sail
And more wonderful still the single sheet
over two lovers on a bed.
I like quoting ancient verses when the occasion is apt. I remember most of what I hear, and I listen all day but sometimes I do not know how to fit everything together. When this happens I cling to words or phrases which seem to ring true.
Photo: Harmonic Hesitation
A little wind
whistled along the bone of my ear.
~ Kyo Maclear, Birds Art Life: A Year of Observation
Notes:
Awake —
What are these quick shots of warmth,
Fractals of forests
That wind through my limbs?
~ Alan Lightman, from Song of Two Worlds
Notes: