Where the Wind Is by Grace Fleming

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I look at the leaf,
so high and lonely seeming,
but not alone,
swaying in worship of the sky,
glow-green beneath the perfect blue,
and I, delighting with it, say:

I want to be where the wind is;
up there, where it stokes the leaves
and makes them shiver in ecstasy,
where Godís touch, both cool and warm,
is ever bringing me to life,
where wings make me a giant,
where light makes me a star,
above the shadows,
below the sun,
at peace but always changing,
trembling but always still,
never so secure as in a storm,
never so alive as in silence,
where the wind is.

Then I look at the leaf and remember
when that was enough
to believe
in the tree.