To Begin

I will begin with a poem. This past Sunday was Pentecost...

Pentecost

Do I need scorching wind
Or sweltering fire
To seer off these waiting layers of skin?

Brazen days
Brazen days

Oh, these ways I did not covet.
Passions accompany despair, and
Flirt with a still tongue
Kept quiet not by wisdom
But uneasy visions.

This tongue ought to be loosed,
And the towers of half-
Truths left incomplete,
With only cranes on the skyline
As reminders of meager days.

Somatic stress fostered by
Escaping to the hills
On quickened foot
Helps me to forget,
For a moment,
But I need to remember

The wind blows over the waters.
The face of the waters have forgotten,
Filled with waste,
Plastic and muck and metal,
They have lost their memory.

These thoughts must be redeemed
By the wind over the seas,
Roaring and shaking,
Fleshing even bones
And trace feelings.

It is not good to be alone.
It is fine to practice solitude,
But you must be ready,
Or you will be found haunted
By your emotions.

I have been waiting.
I know not what for,
Who.
That is not patience,
It is a ruse of hopes.

But I must be waiting
In a room consecrated
With silence and stale breath
For wind to move in, and give life
And language to
My scattered tongue
And weakened flesh.