a soft cacophony (R)

title pending but i think it should have the word wind in it maybe

Stand facing west in the evening, right after sunset,
when the blue is as pure and deep as infinity,
and wait for the wisps of air to touch you.
Be patient; they’ll come, even on the stillest heaviest summer days
because the world is always in motion.

Wherever you are right now, there is wind.
In even the stillest places the simple movement of a hand
can create infinite echos from nothing.

But start at the beginning; find what does not want to be found.
Start with things that are not wind
because you cannot feel wind until you know what it does not feel like,
until you understand the beautiful dry texture so unlike rain
and how the way it hits you is the opposite reciprocal of sunlight.

Then, just for symmetry,
end with things that are not wind
but cannot be without it.
The potter’s wheel of the canyon is shaped by hands of air,
slow and inevitable.

And in between find the cradle of rock-hard safety,
shaking like an aspen with every gust
until you move like it is a part of you,
and in between find the hands holding you, guiding you,
yours in every sense that matters,
one for every instant that never has.

You will never be alone again
once you learn that every word you speak
resonates forever throughout every point in the universe:
thought, unlike sound, travels in a vacuum.
Speak into the void until you hear the echo,
and know that so long as the wind will sweep your words back
you will never be alone.

Even the void has whistling wind,
so listen to the whistle.
Stay up until three a.m. in a windstorm
with one window cracked
and let the interval memorize itself in your soul.
In a world with things this beautiful,
you will never sleep again without dreaming of beauty.

If you can find one,
a cliff at the edge of the sea is best,
or the prow of a ship.
There is something breathably alive about salty air.
Let it rush past you until nothing is left,
and let the nothing fill with music and hands.

Watch the clouds until you know how they move
and the drifting shapes are mirrored in your skin.
And then, only then, remember that clouds are not small,
that the little one up there is only little because it is miles above,
that the shapes being traced around your head
are the footprints of hurricanes
and the shadows of giants.

There are sky gods for a reason, wind sprites and air demons.
Air was once thought to be a quarter of the composition of the universe.
Wind has power. Feel it in your bones.

All the world holds one wind,
in every continent and every chest.
Your throat is a wind-pipe.
Blow the word away and begin anew in every breath.


I Hid in the Church

While the sun still shone bright and true,
I hid in the church when they came.
The sky changed colors but the lake stayed blue,
And the cold beach shimmered with waves.
I slept through the last day at the foot of a pew
In the lonely grandeur of the nave.
While the sun still shone bright and true,
I hid in the church when they came.

As black mist rose to cover the stars,
I hid in the church when they came.
The stone walls were solid, and the doors had bars
To keep out the wind and the rain.
The stained glass windows were covered in scars
That glittered when light hit the panes.
As black mist rose to cover the stars,
I hid in the church when they came.

I hid in the church when they came.
Voices came from no human mouth,
With shudders and screams of pain.
Something watched me through the
With one twisted eye in its face.

I hid in the church when they came.

I hid in the church when they came.
I could see it coming and began to scream.
One warm corpse in the second pew.
I hid in the church when they came.

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