Saturday, 11 September 2010

Windsong


It's witching hour and the wind is prowling about outside, occasionally tapping on the glass and beseeching me to play. The night is so very dark that it curls around me like a cat, twisting about my ankles. Soft and velvety.

I'm curled up alone, away from everyone else. An island of light amidst the dark trying to remember why I can't up and dance away with the starlight. The trees call me, swaying and rustling. They have such stories to tell. The bells hanging on my balcony ghostly soft as the wind brushes her fingers over them.

They want me to play. To think of games as we climb things that were never designed to be climbed just so that we can see the view from the top and feel the whoosh from our lungs as the air escapes. I smell the bouquet of jasmine that the wind has brought me, pale white stars in her hands heady with fragrance. They are becoming more and more impatient as they rustle the doors and window panes calling for me.

It's nearly 1am and the world is sleeping, curled up under warm blankets against the lingering winter chill, but I am here in the darkness and I am listening to the wind. My fingers dancing over the keys to the staccato raps of her knuckles on the stained glass on the front door.

At this time there is no one but me. I can sit on my steps and know that for one brief stolen hour, I can take my spirit and let it soar. Let the air race from me, catching my breath as I splinter into a million golden sparks - a silent spectacular fire work. The Gleam. Glittering shards caught by the wind and tumbled, tossed in her arms. Glowing.

I sing with her, my voice crystal as she pulls it from me, scattering it far and wide. Unearthly, pale, but on fire. I am the air that feeds her, that whispers around homes and across the exposed flesh of those who dare to watch, who understand the call of the quiet hours. The tiniest brush that lifts hairs and causes that delicious shudder along nerves.

And then I am home, curled up on my couch with the darkness blanketing my knees and the windows rattling loudly as the Wind circles and asks me to come out and play again. No one else she knows understands how to play with the Wind.

1 comment:

Melissa said...

Beautiful Jenn.

There's something about that hour that makes me want to explore - everything around me, my creativity, anything. I want to be a part of it. I wish I could live in the night and sleep through the day.

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