Kelly R Samuels
What Wind Can
There were the lines strung near the garden of the generations before and how the wind would fling and billow and crack the white sheets. At least one time, a
lament at some bird's droppings just then, berry tinged and sun baked — the smear
there ever after, faded, but obdurate. Those lines something like this framework
for the yellowed and silvery nets, what you said resembled fog difficult to
replicate. And so the pencil on the tempera, how I imagined her filling in the
clouds on that one painting only I love. The painstaking work in a room with good
light all to show movement, what the wind does with range. Sometimes, the
anemometer resting and then, suddenly, spinning — its halved cups a blur that
dizzied, that proved not all can be entirely seen. This rush of, this gust. How we
would walk into it or with it at our back, claim it could lift us if we let it.
Not the sea, though it came from. Though that is what you spoke of — the water's power. How it thrashed and railed and sprang. The spume's white like blank
canvas there in the background. But more the bone, the whale's rib. Heavier than
a branch, that driftwood we dragged down to the line between the wet and the dry
and sat on, looking out, our feet buried. Sturdier and sharper than. This one of a
set that once sheltered a heavy heart and lungs that could hold thousands.
Somewhere someone stands two on end and recalls birches or the sacred vault —
the eye drawn up, arcing. But here it remains prone. Nestled in the brown grass
with the deep green and swath of what resembles glacier. Age old. Of the sea
Kelly R. Samuels is a Best of the Net and two-time Pushcart Prize nominee, as well as the author of two chapbooks: "Words Some of Us Rarely Use" (Unsolicited Press
) and "Zeena/Zenobia Speaks" (Finishing Line Press
). Her poems have recently appeared in RHINO, Cold Mountain Review, DMQ Review, The Pinch
. She lives in the Upper Midwest.