What moves with the wind

What moves with the wind, bends only to be one with something
fiercely alive, tangled in space, breathing for so many moments as if
in the applause of the heart to soak in all that adores or shuns or
simply motions as if it were so completely together in the place of its
roots:

All the tears inside of my soul launder onto the sweeping loaves of
invisible fingers, hands, gestures to find something so terribly
revealing -- I am left to wonder how can God see me so naked as to be
afraid of being spotted by a fish:

it was the sweet sound of your voice lifting itself out, becoming
its environment, the self-same wheeling and sighing along with clouds,
thundering down as only something that moves constantly knows what it
means to crash so mightily as lightning --

Within the hub of that splendid ride, to feel once again the rush,
the sense of going from a center toward that destiny one cannot
escape.