Sleepless, I lay listening to the wind, wondering what it whispered and whence it came. It moved around the house, insinuating itself through the half open window, stealing across the bed to rattle the door; a silent intruder.
Where had it come from… where does it begin? Where will it expire in a final sigh? What had its blind breath seen since its birth and what secrets would it carry to its ending. How far, how long had it come before it touched my face? Perhaps it had caressed the cheek of a stranger before me, or a love far away or even a long-ago almost forgotten. Did it carry the whisper of a name within its heart, longed for in the dark? The murmuring of lovers, of the sobs of silent grief? How many stories does it know and is its voice made of whispers or the prayers of a child?
How many breaths does it take to make the wind? And who is breathing? Is it the breath of earth or the sighing of dragons that bends the grass and plucks the petals from the cherry trees, showering children with spring’s confetti? Is it born of the butterfly or the wings of birds in the morning?
It carries the perfume of a thousand roses and the taint of as many deaths, it holds life from beginning to end with insubstantial arms, gathering all into itself, becoming one with it, echoing it in its moods. In winter it howls… vulpine and feral, tearing at brittle fingers of dying wood, stripping away the effete. Scavenger of the gods, picking clean the skeletal remains of autumn.
In summer it is a welcome caress, laughing softly in the canopy of dancing light, waltzing with dust devils in the sunshine, cooling the blushing cheeks of a first love, or the tears of a last. As the trees turn golden and weep for summer’s end it breathes upon the gravestones, revealing forgotten names and iridescent beetles, piling leaves for childlike feet to play in.
Does it ever stop, or only sleep, resting awhile in a quiet valley? Does it carry the wish of the heart in its own? Or do we inspire its inspiration?
Or is it just the ghost of a dream…