The Mists of Reason

The hard cruel blasting wind, in an effort to exert influence over the uncontrollable is sometimes given a name or a face. The storm you can call by name, you can grasp, and somehow falls more easily within range of understanding.
Gentle, soothing breezes are known by a variety of names, personalities. Zephyr, trade wind, swell, tramontana… all speak to us not with any voice they possess but with the one we gave them. Should that influence be thought benign, so then it is.
The power of wind harnessed, redirected may be witnessed if one works in a mill, but truly the wind in all its ways is impossible to see. It simply lives by its effect, being both the actor and the acted upon. To the dreamer then, when the blade spins, God whispers from across the ocean of space and the chasm of time.
To truly experience the power of the wind, in all its guises, one must be close to it, and give oneself to it trustingly and without regard to consequence – the lesson learned is the only reward; one must sail.
Moonlit bayside cottages,
Sloops swaying on the water line,
The silver glow of night on water,
From the point a light sweeps the seas,
Beneath the keel, the water’s power churns,
In the distance,
Hanging vines and willows just shed,
Are set to dancing by an unseen animator,
That same which presses against the window,
And whistles,
Whines and careens,
Bellows,
And caresses,
All of this beneath a canopy of stars,
Web-work of timber and canvas,
Shower of meteors,
Laughter of grand and happy angels,
As the mainsail unfurls,
The mists of reason lift,
Only the push of the rig through the waves,
Only the vagaries,
Only the unseen remains.

End. Rev4. 12.40 pm 8 February 2010, Brooklyn
© David Mark Speer