Wind Doth Blow

Without the wind

the dunes would not be shaped.

The Samoon shouldering
ecru sand
poisoning the mauve of the night
pumicing hillocks into sand drifts
sand-piles into hazel knolls.

Crimping, pleating, kneading
fawn grit into ribbons of pleasure
- a welcome tribute to the rising sun.

Without the wind
sand would be locked in its stifling grain.

Deep between us too,
the hot siroccos of forced silences
the cold Bise, chipping our eyes to stony flints
the foehns enveloping us in dryness
the Gibli- that tickles more than anything else
and the sensational, liberating monsoon winds -
binding, repairing, brokenness of every kind.

Despite the windows,
without the winds,
we'd be trapped.