Alive

Spring and summer in the north woods brings a riot of life, long held dormant through the cold death of winter, to resurrect and recreate itself. Even the wind, the harbinger of rain, the stirrer of fog, and a tailor of all that is Earth, feels alive, but without the harsh edges and biting teeth of winter's touch.

Mick

Alive

The air itself is alive...
It thinks I need the company
Of tiny, flickering life candles,
Burning to get a piece of me.
It is nice to be needed,
But I had not planned to feed so many.

The air is alive, for it moves...
Its tender touch, a cool caress,
Strokes my brow,
And messes with my hair,
Puckish, it plucks my hat from my head,
And spins it into the dust.

The air is alive, for it sings...
A song that whispers of secrets -
Carried on the wings of thought.
Ethereal music, transparent, ghostly -
Dances on the edges of my ears,
Delicate, it teases my mind.

The air is alive, for it roars...
On the heights, it cascades,
A rapids churning through
A cataract of pines and firs;
A bellicose banshee, crying
As it scrapes the land.

The air is alive, for it pushes me...
It tugs at my jacket,
And presses me back on my journey.
I walk faster with its hand on my back,
And it has slapped my face
With a cold, wet hand,
And brought me to wakefulness.

The air itself is alive...
I know this for certain;
It visits within me,
Granting life to lifeblood,
Linking me to all it touches,
Tasting of all about me,
Bringing the scents of my world,
And taking me
To the ends of the Earth.

Mick McKellar
June 2008