Whisper of the Wind
I am the eye of the storm.
Arms raised in witness of unspeakable grief,
flash-floods through shadowed crevices of the heart.
You "wonder" why I speak so often as thunder,
And remind me the whisper of wind is also voice.
Whose comfort do you serve?
Wind and trees, they know my name
but the mountain and storm
are heart, are hearth.
And here I stand.
Here, I stand.
And thunder will call out
for the wilderness,
for the wildness,
for the broken, the wounded and the maimed.
Here, I stand
And I will call,
until the winds no longer mourn,
at the fading of the day,
and in the darkness we are held, resting whole.
Fiona Mackintosh (© June 9, 2007, February 22, 2018)