“The wind bloweth where it listeth, and thou hearest the sound thereof but canst
not tell whence it cometh and whither it goeth.” John ch 3. vs 8.
In a plain bound book
I tattoo white paper in blue
Then wrap myself in this shaman’s cloak
To fly with the eagle to a sky renewed.
I sing words salvaged from the press
In the intervals of Te Deum,
Stolen from its church,
Sung so only its melancholy shines.
Pärt turned to church and tradition
Amidst a century of horror,
And I turn to these conjured spirits
In a world polluted by podcast trash.
Inwardly, I turn – not without question.
The simplest words are sewn with elaborate doubt.
But into the image of inwardness
I dive deeper, and there find reasons to go on.
In the mandalas, strange mazes, of this book
I encircle, tame, and then hold fast
The sound of the blowing wind.