Last night the wind greeted me with intimate familiarity in evening, whispering languorously in my ear. It talked of changes on their way. Making branches on Mother Earth's trees dance and bow; the youthful and willowy, shook and wavered as the wind brushed up against them. The wind spoke through leaves, with raspy tongue, of fall days quickly to come.
Without that explicit wind, plumage clouds I gazed, could not outrun the crescent moon in onyx, starry gilded sky. Those mischievous clouds were rushed to hide the blinding moon, then again, allowed a granting peek at innocent lovers across the world skies. The incandescent moon, in all her glory, is yet still jealous of zephyrs because he moves not only the celestial dome, but all of us below. The moon is jaundiced by its freedom, and even still, more overwhelmingly livid of its lull.
This wind, that shows itself unmasked, takes care not to hurt even a fly, but instead kisses your skin with alabaster fingers; then seeps into the paper-thin tissue of your soul, blowing velvety and sweet, igniting, unleashing and finally climaxing an electric current across essence of your core.
This unabating stream of air, which I speak of to you with endearing thoughts...endearing terms, is one that I recognize and embrace with much fondness, in the vein of an old familiar. This old forgotten friend, if I were in a field with nothing but tall blades of luscious, emerald green grass, would bend them to its will, where they should fan my sunburnt body, then progress to caressing it as if with peacock feathers.
If one listens closely...deeply, it occasionally tends to moan a mournfully howl in deafening silence, this wind now mine; it lets out stifled cries because of what its witnessed in all its ancient years. But despite of callous things it's seen, its awkward touch is only tender.
And on this night of all nights, my hair I let loose over one eye and it happened just so that this unassuming, nameless wind came along and tucked it back with one gentle sweep of its warm and sheltering fingers.
Such a wind I tell you of is rare, I know, but when it reveals itself it's not hard to unmistakably distinguish it from a gust, a gale, a tempest, a nor'eastern, or a squall.
