The Rush

Don't fear the wind, little stream.
Fight it
You know
deep down
you can overpower
Let the wind blow
ripples into
your cold skin.
God, for the sun
to shine
just a little hotter
and you could baptize me,
naked and smiling,
that you would
caress me,
soften my hold on
the balled-up hushed-up
impermissible passions,
mask my division,
and give me just
ten minutes
of peace.
Cold wind, you're no help,
sending me shivering,
yearning for comfort
shelter
warmth and feed.
If I could only
grasp you, see you
between my fingers,
slipping by me with
trailing fingertips.
If only you would
drown me in
your insistence.
If I could gather you
with incapable fingers
and keep you in a jar
to cleanse me and quench me.
But I must let you
pass me by-
I have no way to
catch you,
and I don't know
how to feel you.
Wind, I must keep the water,
for its purity,
but mostly only
because I know how.

--Barbara E. Prater, 4/00