By Charlie Glick
I’ve always wanted to write a poem about the wind
doing what wind does: speaking
in leaves, shaping
sails on horizons, lifting
the pappi of dandelions into sunlight
over parking lots, or purring
in the cracks of shut rooms,
wind at the shift of seasons screaming,
ripping limbs, exploding transformers, wind
on my face, in your hair,
windows all the way down
as we drive home.
A poem that asks the usual questions about the wind,
for example: how old is it?
Are there separate winds or
is this wind the same wind that stirred
at earth’s first dawn? Does the wind sing
when it’s alone? Doesn’t it need us
like a voice needs cords to thrum?
And by us I mean trees, wild grass,
sails and wings of ravens,
your curls, my fingers, open windows.
The thing about the wind is the music’s free.
The wind doesn’t need a team of attorneys
any more than it needs to go on tour,
sell T-shirts or save the hit for the encore.
Just go stand outside, anywhere,
and get played. You’re the hit. The wind needs you
and even though you can’t hold it,
it holds you. In another city far to the south
I used to stand on the front porch some nights
to feel the wind pour in over the mountains
from the desert, or further than the desert,
I don’t know the place but I could smell it.
Copyright Glick 2023