The trick is not to.
Not to struggle, thrusting
the anvil of your
body against the
gale, not to compete, but to
sway and bend, threading
the edge of the air,
welcoming dishevelment.
Who is in charge of
corralling the squall
into meager breezes, these
air conditioned spaces?
Who is bold enough
to slam open the windows
let the shouting in?
You want to be brave.
But you yearn also to curl
beneath the blanket
of wind, a small fold,
your breath a small sigh beneath
the world’s loud exhale
and also
to be the window
it shoves into and through, a
portal for the sky.
The wind reminds you
of what you can be, tousled
dismantled,
a being
that can continually
be remade.