That Reaches Me

That reaches me:

and without even being exposed to its sweep, it’s the wind that reaches me now, speaking a language that’s rushed across the ground and heard in the sway of branches, a primordial force that sounds as a rattle to windows and the brace of my home against it. The wind reaches me even here, inside and warm, protected from its late winter touch.

I hear the language of its reach.

it’s a powerful force of nature, perhaps the one that effects me most deeply, as if I know that there’s no place beyond its ultimate reach, and that eventually I will be held in its embrace. There are so many moods of wind, from the softness of a breeze that cools the skin from summer heat, to the chilling gust that reaches to the bones with its icy touch of winter. But it’s that long heavy sweep that seems to speak directly to the most primitive part of me, causing an urge to either seek shelter or to give myself completely to its charge, surrendered, exposed to the basic fear of being swept away.

lost.

and that’s what I hear from the safety of my home, a calling, or perhaps a warning that every wind will eventually each me and that it’s best to give myself away now, trusting that my soul already belongs to the wind, not lost at all, but found in the very essence of its reach. What I hear is a language that I somehow seem to…