Image by Joseph Brauer via FlickrIt flows through my hair, a mental weather vane, to show me which direction my thoughts will be carried. I stand with hands in pockets, grounding myself and leaning into a gale that forces instant penance by stinging my eyes. There is no choice but to wince while I take in the view and seek objectivity. From such a height, I can see much of the world, but less of myself.
When the wind points towards You, I send my love.
Mental pictures of places with you,
Words that I will only say to you,
Heat from the hearth of my heart;
To keep you warm until you’re no longer alone.
I know, but do not want to believe, that the direction of the wind will not change all winter. It comes boldly from desolate lands in the north, carrying a frigid message to the south. Hopefully, my thoughts carried with it will melt the ice that weighs upon your wings, allowing your thoughts to fly towards me with the spring migration.
Memories, like firewood, are stacked high within a few paces of my fireplace. I have summer days to recall, when we skipped through tall, verbal grasses, holding hands, unable to refrain from giggling—our sonnet and nursery rhyme in one. I have autumn to relive, the beginning of our catharsis, good fodder to contemplate why our conversations abruptly turned into unfulfilled promises, and ultimately, into this silence. Four times per day, I will agitate the coals, wrestle with the tender, and rebuild my love for you. I pray to Love that my fuel lasts longer than winter’s stay.
My intuition says, “Our need to skip through time wore down our ability to skip happily down the sidewalk of life,” and I don’t disagree with it. There is an order to all things; we can’t juggle the seasons, only listen to what they tell us. We hold no true power outside of what's inside of us, and what's inside speaks the language that we must learn. So I stand here, ears growing colder each day, listening as the wind whistles its tale, and predicts our future.