Whirlwind

Whirlwind

by Eugene Johnson


The first one I saw
this season
gently twisted
in a clockwise motion
in the mowed grasses
of the field,
picking up the brown blades gently
and attempting to weave them
into a basket
to carry the spirits
of the people up
into joy and happiness.

Whirldwind

Spirits travel
in the whirlwinds
I have heard

A whirlwind traveled through
our camp
after I lived on the mountain
for four days.
It was wound
so tight
it looked like brown celophane
with a dusty mop of hair
atop.
I knew where it was going
without malice or anger,
with a ferocity of Love
it lifted the red cloth
of our souls
from the altar
and tossed them to the earth
as a young man
fruitlessly attempted
to catch them.
There,
it disappeared.

I laughed at the beauty
at the message
that I knew then
but didn't heed until later.

In the hot desert sun
of ceremony
a whirlwind came
large and dusty
swallowed the whole arbor
lifting violently
the brown blades of grass
and dust
creating a basket
of angry Love.
It drained the last bits
of moisture
from the dry
hot
earth
and the bodies.
For the brief moment
of its violent Love
without anger or malice
it lifted the spirits
to joy and happiness.

Every year
I look forward to the whirlwinds
brown and dusty
in the mown and plowed fields
of the Willamette Valley.

Are they spirits come
to remember the earth,
to send us a message?

I lift my soul
into a brown dusty carriage
and am carried into
the world of imagination.