Home >> Volume 6, Issue 01

The Wind Blows Wherever It Pleases

Elena Lee Johnson

I do not wish to forget
the great organ music—
the pipe organ music
in my little white car
rushing through
horizon to horizon
White windmills—
space-age sleek;
hard wings stemmed
into the sky;
each arm outreaching
the semi trucks scurrying below—
in their rows, they mark positions
in a grand ballet.
They will not disobey
the direction of the wind.
What joy to be a pipe
or blade alive, athrob,
all open-throated song
of the Spirit.