My windchime
knows only five words
but when it talks
to the breeze
it’s music to my ears.
A Conversation With The Vast Whiteness
I’m not new to snow. But I am new to living where it snows right outside your doorstep, and where one is stuck with snow for around 5 months a year. And like anyone who is new to anything, like a child, I spent time watching and being mesmerized by it.
So here are a few of the many conversations that I had with this Vast Whiteness. We met just outside my door this morning and went for a walk.
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“The snowflake is water solidifying into structure,” said the Whiteness as I tried to catch some flakes floating down from the heavens. “The universe is making patterns at the smallest scale. Nature creating micro-art.”
The flakes landed on my jacket, and as I brought my eyes closer to observe, the Vast Whiteness said, “Just because the snowflake is small and trivial doesn’t mean it should not deserve attention from the universe!” I nodded in agreement, still scrutinizing the flakes on my sleeve and pondering my own triviality.
rustling
I was like the wind
mute
in fury
I molded oceans into waves
silently rolled them
onto mountains
until mountains broke down
I scurried
through flowers
hurried through
meadows; wordlessly
carried clouds
birds seeds
to where they’re needed
missed
or loved
then
at the peak of my frustration
I found you
you were like a tree
solid
quiet
sincere
and while you could not educate
or control me
you stood there and watched me fail
to mold roll or carry you
to push you down
you stood
unaffected
as I threw tantrum
after tantrum
until my rage was worn out and tired
until I understood
that I must
slow
down
that my strength
does not
match your frailty
that it’s only when I run my fingers
calmly
peacefully
against your lips
only when I brush your hair gently
that you will open your palms
and give me back
my true voice
life sentence
Tonight they will make us walk
barefoot
through the halls of this feeble language
until we are tired, cold
and disgraced
They will order us
to stop
They will blindfold us
first you, then me
and place us in front of the firing squad
As they gaze with contempt at our eloquence
And while we stand in front of those lifeless letters
As they take their aim
As they judge us
Our fervent hands will meet
fingers will grip each other
crushing the silence
between our palms
We are partners in crime
You will turn to me, smiling
(I will imagine your smile)
with your mischievous eyes
(I will see them despite our blindfolds)
like you always do
when you have a plan.
“I know of a place,”
you will whisper,
“not far from here
where we can hide and read the night
Where no one will discover us
while we write, erase
and rewrite
our words
until we find
that perfect sentence
And there we can spend forever
whispering it to each other
until we are innocent
again.”