Mandala of Wind and Water

By Carin Rich. 10/12/25

Morning unfurled her saffron shawl in Ojai,

where paint met prayer

and color became breath.

At the Libbey fountain, the circle was born again,

spirits of wind whispering through pigment,

ancestors stirring in the blue between breaths.

Brushstrokes became wings.

Children ran past like bright intentions,

their laughter folding into silence,

the kind that speaks in symbols.

By afternoon, the compass was complete,

a wheel of gratitude turning in the sun.

Around four-thirty, the mandala was finished,

its colors resting like prayer flags in still air.

Strangers felt like kin,

and the birthday friend who brought us all together

was the richness of life itself.

Each voice a color,

each story a thread

in the woven breath of the day.

We drove up the mountain at dusk,

the road winding toward the whisper of water.

A creek stitched silver through stone,

and the mineral bath steamed beneath the stars.

We slipped into its warmth,

our reflections mingling with constellations,

the sky and the pool breathing as one.

Someone poured champagne.

Someone whispered appreciation.

And beneath the patient stars,

we shared a feast by the water’s edge

laughter rising like incense,

the night itself breaking bread with us.

On the way down the mountain,

In that hush between heartbeats, one last solitary look at the mandala.

The mandala still turned,

a wheel of color,

a wheel of love,

a circle without end.