A little while ago I was in Orange to visit the “théâtre antique” … the wind was absolutely and literally breath-taking, so it was worth a villanelle:
When the mistral bellows and blows out of God’s breath,
Men, trees, and beasts abide through invisible Guide—
Creation stands and bends, and feels Him face to face.
While in ancient Orange, on a hill made with wealth
Of bright painted Provence, I stand hands opened wide
As the mistral bellows and blows out of God’s breath.
When St. Eutropius fled, for dearest life and health,
Off bishropic duties, the Wind cast him aside:
Creation stands and bends, and feels Him face to face.
The frontier of dust and air dissolve when the breadth
Of stones becomes shadows: The old theater hides
As the mistral bellows and blows out of God’s breath.
He who brooded over the formless void and waste
Now moves around all things and stills the world so wild
Creation stands and bends and feels him face to face.
The bold ancestral Breath, in his unyielding grace
Bows oak, willow and ash, and bends men in their pride;
When the mistral bellows and blows, out of God’s breath,
Creation stands and bends, and feels Him face to face.