“Do you serve a master?”
I asked the wind,
which blew in the cold
from the northeast.
Late season snow
and deep cold,
lasting more than winter.
“You do not answer me.”
the wind did not speak,
instead,
it drifted in more snow
around my door
and over the eaves of the roof.
“I guess, if you do
serve a master,
then it must be the Earth.”
The wind just blew.
In the spaces
between the gusts,
the silence of the night
was almost oppressive.
Perhaps that was just my mind,
long worn weary of winter.
The absence of the winter wind
meant neither freedom,
nor oppression.
Again it howled.
“Are you free, then?
to blow snow in the cold
of winter’s heart.
To raise waves
and blast the coastlines
of the world
as you see fit?
When you move the dunes
of the great deserts
and hide a thousand years
with a single breath,
is that you
and your will alone?”
The house shuddered
and groaned,
as another great gust of wind
buffeted around us.
I wondered at the force
and the violence,
and how,
even in the night
of darkest January,
I knew that spring would come.
“Are you free?”
I asked again.
No answer,
but the wind continued
as if it knew no master,
and that was enough for me.
HG – 2022
