< 1
The wind waits,
sensing her weariness,
feeling her longing
At the touch of its breath, she stills
Seeking salvation, she turns
to face the grace
and opens wide her arms
to absorb
to absolve
Giving way to the day and the weight of
all she carries, she breathes it in,
and holds within her arms its breadth, its depth, its loving force
and is renewed.
Beauty on the wind
Oh, wretched exhale.
When the wind carries lavender, balsam or brine
my nose wants more than my lungs can give.
The earth’s own musk calls me like a lover
and I stop and breathe, wanting only to inhale,
to consume and be consumed.
To hold within me the beauty on the wind.
Beth Holly is in the midst of a personal renaissance, having recently left a twenty eight-year marriage and a thirty five-year career as an attorney. Writing has become the vehicle for speaking the truth of her life experience and sharing her unquenchable thirst for adventure, learning and joy. Her writing has been featured in HerStry and is forthcoming in the Chicago Story Press. She is the mother of two wonderful adult children and lives in New York with her two hairy dogs.