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
