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A Sestina Thrown to the Wind

The invisible force pushes against the leaves,


Then, like a decrescendo, it dies –

This playful tune began at creation.

It seemingly comes from nowhere…

But is always somewhere.

The Song of the Earth waits to get somewhere.

A pleasant feeling on a warm day – it always leaves.

Yet, a place that hasn’t felt its cold harsh wrath is nowhere.

The rush, the push, the tearing, the howling –

This must be the sound of creation.

And at the same time, the sound a falling tree hears as it dies.

If not to feel the air against, all dies.

Yet, somewhere:


Longs to feel the pushing against its own leaves—

For no one knows from where comes the howling.

It seems as if it comes from nowhere.


Nothing comes from nowhere! None die silently. No, all dies


In excitement of terror—pushing back or running to. Always going somewhere.

Wishing to stay but unable to tether to anything, always leaves.

Covering, crescendoing over creation.


God breathed, and out of nowhere

The nothingness leaves,

Death dies.

Yet, from somewhere

Comes the wind. Howling.

Against everything, pushing, rushing, howling.

All of creation

Being pushed somewhere,

But only some moves. Nowhere,

Comes and goes the mighty roar. Then, without warning, dies

Like a fallen oak limb from a tree leaves.

We know that age old howling. We know it cannot be erupting from nowhere.

The wind is creation. And, although it may seem everything dies,

A wind, blown from somewhere to somewhere, never truly leaves.

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