Stilling the Wind jc staff, July 2020
Violent force, unseen, whipping my hair across my face,
branches of trees, decades old, lurch and jerk, directionless.
A ghostly moan – where does it come from?
Is it the mournful voice of the wind itself?
Turbulent, it is unsettling the way it stirs,
never soothes.
Because it is never soothed.
It is aggressive, discontented, darting –
moving recklessly, with unclear intent.
But it leaves the grass alone – stoic,
and untrembling.
Perhaps, the grass is too strong and anchored
to be sucked into the wind’s cruel game,
standing resolute in the storm-filled torment.
The courage of the grass against the wind
is the courage of my heart against my mind.
Be still, it whispers.
Even though it shan’t be heard.
Be still.