by John O Donohue
For Ellen Wingard
Among the kingdom of the winds,
Perhaps, there is one of elegant mind
Who has no need to intrude
On the solitude of single things.
A wind at ease with the depth
Of its own emptiness, who knows
How it was in the beginning,
Before the silence became unbearable
And space rippled to dream things.
A wind who feels how an object strains
To be here, holding its darkness tight
Against the sever of air, ever eager
To enter, and with a swell of light
Dissolve the form in its breathing.
A wind from before memory
Whose patience will see things become
Passionate dust whorled into sighs
Of ghost-song on its wings.
You can find this poem in Conamara Blues by John O’ Donohue.