Wind Painter

Figuring out how

to paint the wind,

flying alone,

with both wings pinned.

It is all there

and yet it's not.

Bites me cold,

soothes me hot.

At times a highway

for birds to use.

Always a byway

of olfactory clues.

Whispers in my ear,

then shouts out loud.

Plays tricks on the eyes,

while pushing clouds.

Oaks and maples

dance in its embrace.

Challenging a duel,

it slaps me in the face.

Giving the grasses

a movement so watery,

What's taken away,

random as lottery.

The wind alters

what it touches.

Releasing habits

from firm clutches.

Returns again

an ocean wave,

Turning up,

churning up

hopes we save.

Poem by Mar Startari-Stegall, copyright 2011

Screen by Mar Startari, 2012

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