Oct 15
Quella's picture

The Wind Said

There is nothing to do, the wind said
As I held a feather to my heart,
Its hollow owl flight tucked beside that tiny bone-
the arch I see on my chest when I breathe

It is the same arch beneath which I have walked, I think,
when the orange ground stained my shoes,
somewhere to the west
where I inhaled dry heat
and dust played in the sunbeams.

I have learned that our bodies
are maps of the world.
We are same giants we dreamt of as children,
The giant we are both killing and trying to save.

And yet still the wind said there is nothing.
Nothing to do
despite all of this life—this overwhelming life—
that we are, that we eat, that we must maintain
lest it die.
It is supposed to die.
But also to live.

And so perhaps
we have overlooked what the owl
and the deer
and the turtle
and the wind
still know.

That perhaps all there is to do
is to trace our fingers over
our own sweet skin,
over the mountains and rivers
that rise and rush along our bodies,
and breathe
our own heat
our own breeze,
without trying,
without ever possibly failing.