Ventography

by MISTEE ST CLAIR

So now it is spring and the winds again.
The elderberry branch that beats
against the window. Something shifts
and clatters against the house. Bare trees
hold pearls of rain even as the wind pushes
and pulls. A moody force. Still bringing rain,
still cold enough to suggest snow. Down the street,
wind climbs the federal building. Ravens ride
thermals and ridges at the top. A wind
with whistles. Above the mountains, wind stirs
new snow. An unbodied dance. We walkers
lean and labor the same, into and through. Atmosphere
a cloche we stride under. Have forged and loved
and dusted our lives under. Why do we talk of
harnessing the wind as we harness bodies?
Nothing changes. This attempt to boundary it into a claim.
To remake wind into a territory. Even though
it is placeless, loyalless. No, the work of the wind
is not a possession. The work of the wind is to bring
snow and rain. Nettles and crocus. Wheatstalk and songbird.
The work of the wind is to leave you
breathless and dazed. No one country can bear it.