the wind is here.
but where did it begin?
the tiny freshet leaking from a snow bank
that starts a river—
and its tail—
the heavy and slowed current as the river
stacks up against the deep ocean—
no—wind is different
without beginning, without end
the swirling soup that connects everything
invisible, delicate and subtle
holding deadly force
could we have not called it
god, tao, buddha?
*Copyright 2010 by Luther Allen. This poem appears in The View from Lummi Island.