When a fresh springtime breeze
embraces you — fling your arms
wide open and hug it right back!
wind & breeze
Palm’s psalm
Wind tries to show Tree how to run wild.
Tree: “I cannot leave this place.”
Wind: “Then let’s dance.”
Pecan trees
blue-sky chilly breeze
accentuates bare branches
with starling-shaped leaves
Spring sleeplessness
It’s winter-has-warmed-to-spring insomnia —
you don’t want to stay up late
but the warm-cool air
coming in through the windows
is a seasonal aphrodisiac
too strong to deny —
the quiet of the dark
the rustling of the leaves
the glow of the moon —
How can anyone sleep
with a breeze like that?
blowing in all the defrosted desire
that froze last November,
caressing you with earthy invitations
and fresh green scents
that make you remember
your primalness —
Why even bother turning in?
no dream will be as good
as this open-window wakefulness,
no rest worth missing
weather this wonderful —
So strip down to your skivvies
and skip the sleep —
it’s Spring!
Flyby
yellow butterfly —
did your wisp fluttering wings
make this springtime breeze?
Brisk breezes
weathered winter leaves
skip and tumble down the road
racing towards the spring
Entranced
autumn leaves rustle
the tension out of me
on pleasant breezy days
sunlit gentle tree, i am
a ragdoll under your sway
In loss still they dance!
the leaves all dance
to the same breeze —
but some flutter and some fall
some shiver and some sway —
and when a gust comes
they lose themselves —
but are no less beautiful
on the ground, where resting
they still yet dance, but free
Opening night
monsoon winds tell tales
lightning dances thunder sings
rain is main event
Thunderstorm
boom rustle tip tap
tippity clink rumble crack
whoosh whish shhh fade black
XXXI
My stiff-spread arms
Break into sudden gesture;
My feet seize upon the rhythm;
My hands drag it upwards:
Thus I create the dance.
I drink of the red bowl of the sunlight:
I swim through seas of rain:
I dig my toes into earth:
I taste the smack of the wind:
I am myself:
I live.
The temples of the gods are forgotten or in ruins:
Professors are still arguing about the past and the future:
I am sick of reading marginal notes on life,
I am weary of following false banners:
I desire nothing more intensely or completely than this present;
There is nothing about me you are more likely to notice than my being:
Let me therefore rejoice silently,
A golden butterfly glancing against an unflecked wall.
—John Gould Fletcher (1886–1950), “XXXI,” Irradiations, 1915
Golden moments
i don’t care how rough a day i had
when i see the golden hour sunset
painting the trees with happy light
and feel a cool breeze on my face—
all is suddenly and magically reset
heart and mind cleared of burdens
—so the gratitude has a place to be
Out!
Come, abashed Self! admit one thing:
You have been indoors too much of late…
You should have been out wrestling with the sun,
Or running races with the rolling Earth…
Where’s the old smell of you, when, nostrils dilated,
You were drenched with sea-salt and soil-odor?
Where’s the lusty tang of your voice, cleansed by strong winds?
Your sun-burnt cheek?
And the animal magic of your eyes?
Out of the house with you…
Into the water! Into the sky!
Over the hills!
—James Oppenheim, “Out!,” War and Laughter, 1916