Andrea Applebee is from the Carolinas. She received her MFA from the University of Pittsburgh in 2009. She now lives in Philadelphia and teaches composition at the University of Pennsylvania.
THE DIAGRAM STILL SKETCHED ON THE WIND
Small floods of radiant air in a port town long since travelled to. It started with one note, made there in a guestbook amid heaps of trinkets, puppet booths, pianos, canopies of foliage, the distant mountains’ aegis. In laughter wreathed like the devil's own cuckolds they moved, with formulate lengths of part made gestures curving behind like cloth, for all the world gone gold against the gathering dark.
Consider the flow of air or gasses that compose an atmosphere resulting from horizontal and vertical differences in pressure, air flowing towards areas of lower pressure. Near the earth’s surface winds flow closed and roughly circular, rotating counterclockwise around lows of the Northern hemisphere, clockwise in those of the Sourthern.
Following this with a culprit’s humor, the recency effect and with it an incrimination, an effort. A situation that is, how can one say, fixed. The formidable cherry blossoms of youth, the rain promised, the whole etiology of surmises blushing horizon.
You know, a coaxed out daylong everlasting or almost. Fortune like a scent compiled as it was of, random occurrences spills in bed and kitchen. Certain things forgotten and those strategies born of each private weakness.
Wind roses diagram how winds move in a place over a period of time, and’ve served as guides on mariner’s charts since long before magnetic compasses. Marking the directions of the eight principle winds, a kind of key; the width of its bands and length of its spokes illustrating the duration and extent of windflow.
Draws lifts drags and downbursts.The frequency of calm or near calm sometimes is given as a number, in the center.
Inward wars that rise hardly to sound, never to speech. Carpentry and wit; the sudden quiet emergence of light prattle about weather or the size of our mouths for what we are.
Creatures all too like the wind—tameless, and swift, and proud—sharing the impulse of its strength only less free.
More bandits than royalty like most respectable characters, ready to abandon the grounds but resistant to do so.
They could only make demands, like highwaymen, unable to force circumstance beyond a few dressed up requests, swagger, and a certain calm sideways look.With those unperturbed platitudes laid down by the dead around in time no more stung with the ignominious jigsawry of contemplated action.
An octagonal tower stands in Athens surmounted by a weather vane, each side facing and depicting a wind; below radiate the lines of a sundial, inside a water clock keeps the hours. It has been said the winds as winged horses draw the chariot of time. As with all steeds they each have inclinations. But we speak now only of wind that blows from west to east.
It eases pain. Sea-borne grassy murmuring aerial it gives the weary rest, and with gentle force impels ships and sea that they may pursue their due fates.
Larks violets thrushes. Mild and most favorable it brings spring and early summer airs, fingers the notes on an oboe to make the vernal tune.
The tune of a sixteenth century song about the west wind was used as the basis of Masses. Its lyrics are thought to be yet older. Westron Wynde when wyll thow blow/the smalle raine downe can raine/ Cryst yf my love were yn my armes/ and I in my bedde again!
Featherly, consenting mornings and all you've wished for or else a song about it. The boat you'll build while the long legged foals of heartbreak and trouble vie for flowers and glory, not to mention the last word. The wind trots at its garrets; altering bells sweep the countryside. Sound stretches the distance.
Tomorrow shatters down regardless. Finitude and bullfinches. Grief too sad for song. Rapier fights between the light and the light that stilting crost the many coursed sea. The wind goes on and on and says nothing about it.
Forsooth, birdsongs thread the morning's slow bloom. Gold give way to green. You see, having overheard a great many things in life thus far who could be sure where to stand. In regard to love one senses enough and that’s all.
In spring, when their hearts make way back into their breasts, they scale mountains, swim rivers, soon the flame has stole its way into their hungering lungs to face the west wind. There they stand and drink the breeze.
Swift the hush air descends, blameless and unseen, the darkened water gathers into crests. The fish bite more. Far across the salt water scatters the seaweed. May the west wind alone have freedom of the sky, alone drive vessels onward and rush unceasingly o’er the curves of the sea, til it bring without storm thy sail to its haven.
Sow and reap, weave, prophesy, harness, hasten down or bend in, strive with the winds. Carrying scent more than sound, wandering without knowledge of moderation, it blows where it list. Without heed to men it cleaves the sea into chasms.
Moving faster at heights wind causes a change in the effective speed of sound with distance above the ground. When one speaks with the wind, the sound refracts down to the ground. Thus one’s voice travels on still days. When one speaks into the wind the sound wave refracts upward and the voice is lost.
Through some the gale of life blows high. A draught speaks through a body. I am not a reed to hold the sound of whatsoever wind blows. A certain amount of opposition is of great use, as it’s often on the side of the ablest navigators. Wild, it sometimes blows even them no good.
You throw the sand against the wind and the wind throws it back again. And if one does not know to what port one is sailing, every wind is unfavorable. Still as they say we must sail, and not drift, not lie at anchor.
Certain strengths take the stead of what’s lacking. Be content and know no answer as if though we pass through fire and quakes it is possible a low sweet wind will blow.
Axe light and all the gloam songs the birds wrung out the day. Wind presses folds and knocks away regardless.. Like music it catches at the fabric of thought with its tiny hooks. It is perfectly reasonable to expect a person. A person speaking. But not of themselves.
The wind is blowing, adore the sound (Pythagorus).
The blown in blood thick possible throbs into your life, a clock's tick you forget to forget. A broke winged sparrow freezing in a puddle to a mantle plume's unfurling, for instance. The wind in the end comes as some comfort.
Yet we hurt badly with double faced feelings. Merry, but at the same time overpaying, fraught. Without recourse. Altogether without recourse.
Like sailors at sea, trying not to alter circumstance but adapting instead: hoisting sail in a headwind, rowing when it quiets.
That other sense of motion shakes the surface of daily experience, subtle but absolute, scattering it like the stirrings of a large fish to the imaged respite of tree limbs on water.
The descriptions made up involving flashes of bone and thunder, hooded figures gathering in the middle ground, hollering, stillness beyond life, the crave of the mind for another world--all hearsay and parade.
It was just time passing.
Dimly, you sense the chasms around each refraction. But most of the time you feel good.
You offer up roses. Fervent below all explanation. I never hear the west wind
but tears are in my eyes.