There is no wind in my sails
I am becalmed
I’ve dropped anchor
To take stock and recover from past voyages
Resting, I dangle a damaged toe into the deep
I’m tired of blowing at sails
Nothing happens anyway
Huffing and puffing with all my might is not going to move this boat
So for now, mend
Check the rigging
Get this little coracle ship shape and seaworthy
When the wind comes, what will it be?
A summery breeze, a bracing westerly, a gale?
How can I know, it’s not up to me
I am not the wind…
So I listen for first whispers
And wafts of scents that ride on early gusts
Enjoying quiet solitude in the place I am beached
The wind will come again
One day it will be here, inviting me to pull up anchor, untie the ropes and let go again to harness the powerful energy of its fearsome billowing magic
Where does the wind come from and where does it go?