the wind may be beautiful my dear

I threw a canvas tarp on the ground,

spreading out the paint,

separating the bright colors

in their temperaments.

 

I stripped down

and dove into the canvas

painting my body

with new angles.

 

I wrapped myself in the tarp

and rolled out the door,

down the street,

tumbling and bouncing and holding the paint close to my body.

 

It covered my face and the fear there,

it ran through my hair, down my back,

all my limbs and everywhere,

as I tumbled in the canvas

till I was unconscious.

 

I awoke in a field

alone with friends,

it was dusk and they were settling for the evening.

Mother deer with her fawn,

fish splashing in the stream,

air bubbles and gurgles

as the frogs sang the last call

and the loon played her magic flute

as the day stumbled out the door.

 

We, my friends and I,

sang

and we were colors,

the sky, the field,

the colors.

The wind swept through the trees

and the water rose.

We went to the shore to hear her secret.

We bent down to drink and as I cupped my hands

I heard the tune I lost to another wind blow through me like an instrument.

Then I knew that I was known and my soul was safe and the tune guiding me from my youth was my birthright from the spirit of truth.

 

I rose from the stream

with the old tune and the new angles.

I rolled up the canvas tarp, smiled, and laid my head upon it.

I was colors,

the stars, the sky,

the colors.

The wind swept through the trees

and the water rose

as we sang the bridge and the chorus,

to awaken the dawn

and all the songs lost

to the heart of darkness.

 

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