Feb 2015
In my room the wind blows strong
against the old glass panes above my head,
its whistle stripped of the pitch and the sting,
becoming a soft caress of my cheek,
reassuring me that an ocean of air
still stirs just inches past my bed.
These walls keep out the world for me
so I can dream of it at night,
as the songs of the past day
sow reflections through those ripples in the air.
Or, sometimes they don’t and the current grows still
and the space beyond these walls seems empty and bare,
like the universe packed up and left me behind
and the house only creeks because the wind has stopped holding it up.
against the old glass panes above my head,
its whistle stripped of the pitch and the sting,
becoming a soft caress of my cheek,
reassuring me that an ocean of air
still stirs just inches past my bed.
These walls keep out the world for me
so I can dream of it at night,
as the songs of the past day
sow reflections through those ripples in the air.
Or, sometimes they don’t and the current grows still
and the space beyond these walls seems empty and bare,
like the universe packed up and left me behind
and the house only creeks because the wind has stopped holding it up.
This is the first poem I've written in a very long time and it came to me during a strong storm while I was laying in bed and could feel the air in my room stirring from the strong gusts outside. Reflecting on this poem, I think it encompasses the seemingly bipolar nature of my attitude towards life; somedays, at my best, the strongest winds feel like a subtle breeze passing by, and other days when things slow down the absence of that gale of a busy life leaves me more likely to collapse. Perhaps we grow so accustomed to resistance that its absence is its most devastating virtue.
