On a chill spring morning
I taste coffee stirred by wind,
wind that tugs at my blouse asking to play,
sends rivers of air
careening over my skin,
sends limping, shedding dog
into a fury with envelopes of scent.
Wind touches my coffee
and stirs it again
with bits of chocolate fur
that I struggle to scoop out.
Rivers of wind in my blouse
my coffee, my hair,
they dance all over me
until I am tempted
to discard my drink and join,
to roll with them over the hill
and partake in their movement,
to flee to the woods
and use branches like violins,
make music out of wind and world
so the earth can then join with the sky
and I myself become the medium necessary to allow this.
This is not the only time I am willing
to be a necessary medium.
Often, I think about wind
and I think about world
and I think about dance
and I wonder
if all human problems can not be solved this way:
through union of art and movement.