puja

windmilled

You get a second wind at midnight, like clockwork, every night. Like a circle in a spiral or a wheel within a wheel, your mind whirls ’round and ’round; a carousel of nonsense you can’t seem to jump off. Like the ripples from a pebble someone tosses in a stream, your thoughts drift in and out and all around. And around again.

Random thoughts pepper your dreams. “Red was never her color.” “Wind power will save the world.” “Maybe I should try karaoke.” In the middle of the night, you lie in the dark, while the windmills of your mind play an old song you used to know. Michel Legrand. You lie there and try to recall the words; you never realized how clever and beautiful they are.

You picture yourself on a wind farm, singing this song. In a red dress you’ve never owned, but will buy tomorrow. And slowly, finally, you fall back to sleep, as the images unwind, like the circles that you find, in the windmills of your mind.

June 16, 2010 -- pamullman

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