In the first tale, I awoke in a kind of form that could feel.
This was so miraculous — I could feel with the whole form!
There were so many sensations, so many points of contact,
though I could not say them, for I was before all names,
prior to any words, but I could feel the warm wind on my face,
and later I knew it as the dear West Wind, and this became
my very first tale, my first of the seven West Wind tales.
In the second tale, I now became a child, a child of a child
in a long line of children, stretching back to the very first one,
the one who stood up and walked, then somehow learned to run
with the wind, as if with a sweet and close companion, as if there was
nothing else but the wind and my feet, running for the sheer joy
of movement, to move with the wind, like the wind, as the wind,
and so this was my second tale, running with the wild West Wind.
In the third tale, the wind that I had known and loved blew off
to the West without me, for my widening attention now was drawn
to the waiting world and all of its many strange and fine, mysterious,
wonderful, enchanting and complex ways and means, its people
and places, scenes and events, that filled my life with the play
of time and space, relations and glad elations, so that I almost
forgot my Friend the West Wind, and thus was my third tale.
In the fourth tale, I dreamed I rode again on the swift West Wind,
and I was swept up off my feet and carried far towards the distant West
where many unknown but strangely familiar Beings came riding out on
their own little breezes to greet me and welcome me home to the womb
of the world, the birthplace of wind and rain and cloud, of day and night
and the stars and moon and sun so bright, and I was shown in the dream
I dreamt that here lay my heart when it came to rest, and here was
the secret place where my soul returned when I was done with the toys
and games of the windy world, and so this dreamy tale became the fourth.
In the fifth of these tales, my magical Friend, the kind West Wind, brought
my own True Love to me, who flew my way on the wings of the wind, then
she spread her loving wings over me in a canopy of pure delight, and
as I stood in the filtered light she opened my chest and reached within,
then placed a solar kiss upon my heart that shone so bright we disappeared
and what remains until this day is the shine of Love that can’t be dimmed
by the coldest gust of the cruel North Wind, and if there’s more that needs
be said, it’s Thanks and Praise to flowing Grace of my life-long Friend
for bringing me my Heart’s True Bliss, Whose loving touch and then
Her kiss through the parted veil became the fifth of the West Wind Tales.
In the sixth of these tales of the wandering wind, the one I call
the Western Wind, my Love and I were taken far to a land beyond
the ken of men, and there we learned of the secret Breath that fills
the multi-verse with life, and on that celestial Breath we roamed, as if
in the arms of the true West Wind, beholding the whirling clusters
of stars that make the dome of night so bright, and at their core
there’s a waiting door, a magnetic dark, a portal to the other side, and
here without a moment’s pause we were drawn in by the urgent Wind
that sought its fate through that ebony gate, and this became sixth
Wind Tale, where words and names, forms and figures, conceptions and
speculations, even time and space, were swallowed up without a trace.
In the seventh and final tale of the Wind, that blest West Wind,
we re-emerged in a realm of light, surrounded by multitudes of lyrical
and colorful breezes, among them of course that wandering Friend,
the Breath of the Source of the vast multiverse, and so we awoke
in a form that could feel, and this was so miraculous — we could feel
with the whole form, and there were so many sensations, so many
points of contact, though we could not say them, for we were now
before all names, prior to any words, but we could feel the warm wind
on our face, which later we knew as the dear West Wind, and thus
was born the seventh tale, at the end of which we begin again.