Wind Maker

Jan. 20, 2013

Wind Maker

She goes by many names.

Some call her Zephyr,
     the breath that kisses our cheeks,
Or Gust,
     the spirit that snatches at our coats,
          carrying off our breath to the mountains.
She is Biter in the Northlands,
      where she rips at our flesh
          in a cold rage,
And in the Plains,
     deep beneath cellar doors,
          her name is whispered,
                "Death."

She's many forms.
In grey stoned Rockies,
     Citizens see her as the Eagle,
          Summoning up currents beneath her wings.
In the northwestern woodlands
     She is the whispering dragon,
          Brushing the pine needles aside
     As she breathes pure air from the ocean,
          grey and clean.

I met the Lady in my homeland,
     Southern green valley.
She dressed in lilac,
     Shades of summer green,
          barefoot and dancing in the grass.
Her beauty,
     breathtaking,
          for she is breath.
She held me in silence upon the hill,
     and when she kissed me goodbye...

Her lips tasted of snowfall.
Mistress to none,
     she is the Wind Maker,
          and she dances upon the grass.