The Wind Itself by Darryl Price
The Wind Itself
is unsure of
which way to go
wanting either that red frisbee
or that green kite
to play with but
settles for several voices
to toss around.
If you were sitting
with me
we could feed ducks
corners of our
sandwiches and not have to speak
except to laugh
and sigh and maybe
hold fingers. The clouds have all
bowed so low that
all the blue of
our streaming hearts has come rushing
in to fill every
space between
every branch or leaf or arm or strand
of hair with its
large bright goofy
face. I don’t care if any of
this matters in
the grand scheme of
things not right now. I want you to
know this place because
I think it
would like to know you. Again if
you were sitting
here next to me
we could put our shoes together
in a kind of
huddle for warmth
the kind that makes life seem worthwhile.
Darryl Price
is unsure of
which way to go
wanting either that red frisbee
or that green kite
to play with but
settles for several voices
to toss around.
If you were sitting
with me
we could feed ducks
corners of our
sandwiches and not have to speak
except to laugh
and sigh and maybe
hold fingers. The clouds have all
bowed so low that
all the blue of
our streaming hearts has come rushing
in to fill every
space between
every branch or leaf or arm or strand
of hair with its
large bright goofy
face. I don’t care if any of
this matters in
the grand scheme of
things not right now. I want you to
know this place because
I think it
would like to know you. Again if
you were sitting
here next to me
we could put our shoes together
in a kind of
huddle for warmth
the kind that makes life seem worthwhile.
Darryl Price
Categories: A Field of Poetic VOICES, A Library of Quiet VOICES
it is the ‘hold fingers’ that gets me in this lovely, lovely poem. Peace…
DP your poetry makes my heart sing. I love these grand ideas — the wind and the blue streaming hearts, the clouds and sky, desire and wishes. But I also love the little details, like putting our shoes together “in a kind of huddle for warmth.” So very lovely, this.
Well, that’s just beautiful. Stunned silence.
I wish I had the words, the right words, to tell all of you how much this matters to me. I’m trying to write a certain sensibility because words can live on.And I want these kinds of feelings to still have a home in our world, even if that place is just inside a poem.Thanks.
Immediate hush at title and first two lines–may I repeat them here, just so I will have written them once? “The Wind Itself / is unsure of / which way to go” – to me that’s magical.