How I miss the wind when it kissed my skin softly in the sun.
When it whipped my face as I lay on the roof of a boat gliding down the Amazon River the summer I woke up from a strange sleep.
When it soothed me in Chennai when I had no brimmed hat but a heart full of love and wonder, and I sought the light for my hands and caught it so I could give it to as many as would receive it.
I miss the wind when he whispered to me the next things to come: the summons of the sun and moon, and distant lands my feet would remember. The next steps to take, and no more.
Eden’s breeze on the Osa Peninsula where burgeoning life explodes in color. Scarlet macaws, white spotted owls, spider monkeys the color of Earth. The turquoise sea making peace with trees more colors of green than one can count.
Salt water songs on the wind dancing in California skies greeting me in an embrace as I stand on rock formations in secret Northern beaches only locals know.
The tempestuous force of Taos Mountain’s breath. Sangre de Cristos changing the wind in snow-capped crispness before the desert summer embeds him with dry, thirsty dust for rustling.
I miss the wind when he was my thread: the only thing I held onto and trusted enough to let go, knowing he would carry me to the next place in the right time, when my spirit was ready to grow.
When I was a feather afloat with lightness in my heart. When he was companion to my wings.
I miss the wind when he taught me the meaning of being a bird, the reason dragons fly, and why faeries and angels have wings at all.
Creatures have wings to learn the language of the wind, so the wind can know he exists. For when we speak the essence of another, they become more of what they are.
The wind spoke to my wonder once, and my heart flew.
Maybe if I take a deep breath to let him in again, he will gratefully appear and my heart will return.
Copyright © Sheyorah Naify, 2021