psithurism

Psithurism - the sound of wind through the trees.

And it is as I lay here on the warm concrete
The roughness brushing my cheek
That I absorb the psithurism
The sound that is not limited to a vibration of air but is a symbol in itself
Of peace, of fullness in heart and head
A place that is absolute abditory
It is here that the psithurism shows me what it means to breathe
For it is not about words whispered
Nor the watered down casual luxuries

Life is defined by feelings
The burning of your chest
The fire on your tongue
The crisp inhale of satisfaction
The spinning in your head
Spinning so fully

The girl whose hands were always quivering
Like the lips of a lost lover
Who she couldn’t remember was real or not
But she remembered desperation, the way that only a feverish broken heart would recognize
Perhaps lost in the blank gaze while seeing dreamy pretty things
Or in the gauzy fabric thrown over reality
Blinding, almost
The glow of the sun as it casts its last rays on her perfectly complicated face

Senses and feelings slewed array
A result of endless possibilities
An endless infinity
Forever floating with the fluffy ones
Or maybe
If she’s lucky
Grazing the leaves, smiling among the psithurism