THE WAYS OF THE WIND

The earth is breathing,

breathing ever so heavily,

on this windy-wild day.

Everything that can move

is in motion. In flow. In flux.

Only the indefatigable Flat Irons 

in the distance are sitting still.

Rising high. Laying low.

My spirit is in motion, too.

Turning. Churning. Burning.

Doesn’t want to settle down.

Settle in. Settle for. Settle up.

It’s hard to be solid and staid,

like the aspen-gilded Rockies,

when winds within are writhing;

when emotions, like autumn leaves,

are contorting and cavorting;

when everything moveable,

everything malleable, is in motion

--as if my inner spirit is not one but many

and they, all of them, are out of sorts--

even some of them out for blood.

And I’m the one left lying in pain. 

But I love knowing even now that, 

when the winds without

and the winds within subside,

skies will clear. Calm will come.

Peace will preside.

Meanwhile my soul, like an eagle,

soars in splendor over the peaks 

and into the valleys of my being,

knowingly riding, gliding, abiding

on the ways of the wind.