In wind like today's the litter and the dead leaves reach magnificent heights. Our hair wraps around our faces and we are beautiful, and i watch us far more than i write. A whirlwind of leaves at my feet. A leashless dog begging anyone for food. A man rocking his guitar like a baby and not noticing the money piling in his guitar case beside him. So many on this rare warm February day who have come out to play. And me, with no track of time, with no idea what time is. You are laughing and watching the impromptu carnival with me and draping me, like the wind...

My eyes cannot help but watch; my ears cannot help but listen... ad listen to thirdhand news of two more bombs in two more cities. It is daily; will i never become accustomed to it? I do not want to become accustomed, but it stabs me... to think: these beautiful faces, these beautiful... and the explosion explodes in me. Something for the list of ways in which we need you? As if i could count them, as if anyone but you could account for them. You yourself are all the ways to you, for you do account for all the ways we need you, accounting and paying for it with your very life. You create our need, and you give us our way.

All of this motion in all of these directions, and so few are going your way. All this whirling in wind, and so few wonder where the wind finds its birth, or where the wind may be taking us. We slant our bodies into it, without thinking. We abandon ourselves and do not even question our desires — or ourselves. As unthinking as littler? As dead leaves? Do you not tell us that we need a tree of life? In so many ways do we need you...

Still we are beautiful to you. You touch us even when we turn away from you. You speak to us though we close our ears to you. You feed us, though we allow ourselves to taste what we can of life whilst numbing ourselves to you. But there is so much more to taste! Life is abundant, so much to taste! We are infused with your loveliness, placed within us and of us by your own hand, and still we do not question ourselves, we forget so often to search for you, to think of the wind's birth. And when we forget, we try to rage against the wind, to hold our place... but still without thought. You make us more than litter or dead leaves, but still we go missing Home.

You are that Home. You are the refuge, the destination that you wish us to find, and you are the way that makes yourself known, if only we seek to find.

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