How Small We Are In This Weather






Southwesterly, the wind,
the accumulated magnitude, the breath of the tempest;
presses against the body of the rippled ocean,
drives it in mad waves onto rocks,
spume flung atop the cliff where we hover,
balanced with outstretched arms, with tugged coat sleeves,
the wind with such strength:
we can calculate how to move,
how to fly in this unrelented howl:
if only we had wings.
No bigger than gulls:
flecks on rockscape.




Comments

Unknown said…
Why soup Lisa? Wish bone soup??
Geo. said…
Lily, this is wonderful. Your poem and picture of wind-driven ocean dashing so high --I feel the hilarity of gravitational laughter, the language of stars. It seems I'm not the only one who laughs at crashing waves.
Lisa Southard said…
Elizabeth :-) Check out the 'What Is Wishbone Soup' page. All explained! xx
Geo- we were walking at a place called Kynance Cove, very wild, very inspirational- you would have fitted in nicely there, laughing at the crash of the waves! Sometimes it just feels so liberating to be a tiny piece of the wonderful vast universe :-)
klahanie said…
Amazing. And with wind churned waves crashing upon the shore, I drift away and let the wind carry me where it may.

Thank you, Lily. Your writing dances upon the screen.

Gary
Suze said…
'I feel the hilarity of gravitational laughter, the language of stars.'

I love reading Geo's words in response to your own, L. Symphonic.

You seem to be unfurling further -- if at all possible!
The Cranky said…
Let others be made of star stuff...I vastly prefer the excitement of being a 'wave' particle!
Lisa Southard said…
I love all of the commentaries- gives me a buzz like the beach, people, it truly does! Thank you so much for making 2012 a brilliant journey :-) Looking forward to sharing more through 2013 xx

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