and the wind is blowing and it caresses
my skin
but not as sweetly as you would
the
wind is simply the wind
no
strings
no
disappointments
no intimacies
but it sings me a song, sometimes,
one I can never wholly translate into
words, cannot break down to little pieces
and surely that is love too
because it’s beautiful
and surely I would look out of
place in a lovely moment like that
anyway
rumpled, careless me, with
windblown hair
and penchant for doing the awkward
thing
are
you out there
somewhere?
I
can’t tell.
I
am a simple thing
yet
so, so complex, so full of tiny
twists
and turns I cannot wholly see myself
no
matter how I spin
and
leap and hop
my lonely dance
this lonely dancer, crooked hem
draggling, somehow—
dirty already?
the earth is soft beneath my big
bare feet
it
tickles and I laugh
hike up my skirt
quit
thinking about how I must look
long
enough
to
be
flowerheads bob in the wind in the
garden
where
are you?
I am no beacon in the darkness I do
not shine
a hidden prize or one not worth the
finding
I
can’t tell.
any
more than I know whether or not
I’ll
ever be kissed down the line
of
my spine
and
cherished in a broken but wonderful
human
way
find me the human way
I
should know but apparently I don’t
when will this ramble end?
when
will the pity party, the fantasy, the yearning,
the
idle woolgathering stop?
summer
mornings and fall afternoons
someone
who pauses to really listen
to
see what’s below the surface
I yearn for this, even I
even big little old young ugly
beautiful me
and
the flowerheads bob
the
wind blows
the
leaves rustle
Posts
