When the wind whispers,
it calls me,
and I listen.
It warns of the coming winter
with the rustling of falling leaves.
It promises spring
by clearing drifts of lingering snow,
and adorning naked branches
with jewel-like buds.
The sultry lure of summer
calls like the gull’s cry
bringing waves of warmth and light,
ebbing out the gray hues blanketing the landscape.
Autumn rushes in,
huffing and puffing, blowing billowing white clouds
like breaths across a brilliant blue sky.
When the wind whispers
from the north
I know a death is eminent.
From the south,
an uprising stirs.
From the east,
new hopes are born.
And from the west,
a cleansing rain will heal.
When the wind whispers
my ancestors speak
reminding me
my journey has just begun.
When the wind whispers
I stand in my yard, arms outstretched
and twirl and twirl and twirl
summoning rain
and change.
And power.
When the wind whispers
it calls me.
And I listen.
Janine Phillips
November 2, 2024
Janina Grey 