Zephyr

Abstract

So many years spent learning how to talk to the wind, and I’m still sitting underneath a ceiling fan, my left eye watering, my parti-words littered out in little paper squares along the desk. I talked, but the only reply I could get was my own voice thrown back, echoed like the zephyr I was always chasing somewhere in the outskirts: I wanted to open a way station for monarchs, its milkweed itinerant and raucous. Or I played the first strains of Appalachian Spring and let those notes fill me with their epic persuasion, belated and in love still with all the zigzag currents who never even knew I was there.