I am making friends with the Wind –
who used to feel like an intruder
rifling up my sleeves
chasing debris down the tunnel
She made of my street.
But now I hear she’s howling
for all that’s kept unfree.
She whistles at gaps and rattles loose
that which is inessential,
raising in upward spirals
things past their due,
clearing the ground
with her sharp, elbowing through.
I am making friends with Change –
who’s an agent of things not yet
as they came to be.
I’m making friends with the Clearing –
not the eventual filling,
but the pause before the hello
when the Beloved picks up
the other end of this phone.
The moment so easy to miss –
The growing of something
I myself must have once seeded.
Yes, we are friends – the Wind and I –
though she whips my hair into my mouth,
slams doors and gives me a fright –
but I just bundle myself well
and meet her on the hill,
make an offering of these leaves
falling in their completeness,
and let Her pull me off my feet
So I may see further what is coming in
on her distant, composing breezes.
2013 © Toko-pa Turner