© 2011 by Marge Burke

If we were the wind,
I would be a tornado,
Swirling and lifting and tossing life asunder,
Loud and unfocused, without direction.
You would be a gentle breeze,
Letting the leaves dance happily,
Quiet and with purpose, pushing sailboats,
And kites.

If we were water,
I would be raging floods,Rushing headlong, overflowing my banks,
Deep and uncontrolled, without direction.
You would be a gentle stream,
Tumbling over moss-covered rocks,
Silent and cool, always yet never
Changing.

If we were sunshine,
I would bake the desert dry,
Intense and immense and burning,
No relief, never sleeping.
You would be a gentle warmth,
Melting winter snows to coax new life,
Drawing faces toward soft morning rays,
Comforting.

If we were fire,
I would consume whole forests,
Blazing out of control, devouring,
Leaving only charred mountainsides.
You would be a gentle glow,
Flickering, crackling shades of yellow-orange
Warming hands and hearts and hearth,
Contained.

If we were light,
I would burst wildly through darkness
Blinding the eyes who searched for me,
Defeating my purpose by my intensity.
You would be a gentle lamp,
Resting on a library table, or a nightstand,
Guiding words across a page, or lighting
My path.

If we were words,
I would shout and proclaim and go on;
On and on and on and on and on,
Demanding to be heard and understood.
You would be a gentle phrase,
Whispering secrets, sharing wisdom,
Explaining patiently, speaking softly,
Respected.

You and your gentleness
Are teaching me
That extremes only frighten,
Disappoint,
Anger,
Hurt,
And confuse.

From you I am learning the importance
Of a gentle spirit, and in the quiet stillness,
I find constraint,
Respect,
Patience,
Wisdom,
Strength,
And comfort.

And I find you.

Benches

What is it about
sitting on a park bench
waiting in anticipation,
fearing
that the fairies
have stolen the magic?

Then, in an instant,
a flicker of light
appears across the fields
through the leaves
on the distant hillside.

The earth is bathed
in an orange glow
as the moon climbs,
peeking above the trees,
winking at me
and at the stars
as if it knows a secret.

Even though the evening is cool,
I feel warmed.
The quiet peace of the heavens
washes over me.

And I think,
maybe it’s not the moon at all,
but the shoulder that almost touches mine
on the bench
next to me.