I’ve always believed in the high rank of the wind. Its talent to strengthen the grasp of roots, toughen the trees’ limbs, rouse the dark soil, allowing new seeds to sprout. The trees stand tall, swaying with the welcoming whispers of the perpetual flow. Fortified with each blushing gust of storm, each bend; each frail broken limb creates space for resilient reaching offshoots to move upward and onward into the sweeping sky of scattered stars. Authoritative currents push aside the haze to permit the sunlight to pay polite curtsy to the tree tops. Boughs carry trails of twigs to reach indefinitely upward in naïve anticipation of brushing finger tips with wisps of misted clouds.
With stretching eyes fixated on the stars and skies. Roots embedded safely, reaching generations of great descending depths, earthen layers of faith, promise, and practice. The rustle of leaves signal seasons’ shift. A spectator to the ever changing tides, the tree resides, amid the reflected flush of golden dawn and under the blanketed darkness of nights’ shade. A silent participant of the storm’s passing howl. Twists and turns of the might take knotted sprigs to ballet in flight. Who stands to dance with the wind but the tree; reaching bright beyond dark shadows of sheltered limbs and heavy forestry. Stranded or planted with the pushing wind at my back. With eyes fixed on the stars and the skies.