Editor’s note:  I wrote this poem long ago while living in the Cariboo,
a beautiful, forested plateau in the interior of British Columbia.

The wind that stirs
in these dark Cariboo forests
last week may have crossed the steppes of Asia
and blown a girl’s scarf about her head
in Moscow Square.
They do not check the wind at the border,
Where are you from?
Where are you going?
What is your nationality,
And reason for visit?
The wind moves as it will,
Impervious to bullets,
Impervious to walls,
A symbol of a dimension larger than man,
A force that we cannot grasp,
Or contain,
Or twist,
Or make conform,
The dimension of Spirit.
As the wind is at home anyplace
So my spirit is at home anyplace
And where my spirit meets your spirit
We are one
And the world doesn’t know anything about it
And the world doesn’t need to know anything
About it, but we know,
And we sense the power of that union
And that these walls which man has made
Will not be around much longer
But the wind will blow forever.

Christopher Foster

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