
And what is wind
but a dialect of longing?–: the high
pressure rushing to fill the low, the sky
trying to slake its heats against the earth’s
asymptotic cool, its somersaulting cools
against the earth’s radiance. All weather
springs from currents of failed desire. No wonder
the wind, when it says anything at all,
howls.
*
O fugitive God, my glorious jilt,
my heart has learned a tempest’s grammar
in your pursuit. Listen: it thunders up
its truest, its most hopeless, prayers
for you.
–Kimberly Johnson, “[ ].” in a metaphorical god
One response to “A Dialect of Longing – Poetry Tuesday”
[…] on fire. Deer pant after God. The whole creation groans with labor pains. “And what is wind,” KimberlyJohnson asks in a Holy Saturday poem, “but a dialect of longing?—: the high/pressure rushing to fill the low…No wonder/the wind, […]
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