Stop
leave the key in the door,
turn right round where you are
See, feel, hear
the wind rush through the trees
Let yourself be lifted in its flow
the great whirling above our heads
that we miss
when we only look down
Stop
leave the key in the door,
turn right round where you are
See, feel, hear
the wind rush through the trees
Let yourself be lifted in its flow
the great whirling above our heads
that we miss
when we only look down
I see a couple through the plate glass windows of a social hall on the bottom level of a dorm. She is combing and braiding the hair at the back of his neck, her fingers working through a small section of it. Though their eyes don’t meet, they are connected by this intimate act And I want to cry For their bond and bonds broken, For the simple when things have gotten so complicated, For the trust inherent in the running of fingers through one’s hair – and the pain in knowing someone else is doing it
The ghost of winter,
a puff of breath
whisking swirls of snow
off the branches and into the air
suspended
a last gasp of cold crystals
the pine boughs flash frozen for a moment
and then it’s gone,
green grass poking through the raised mounds of snow
pushed upwards
by the fledgling growth of spring
a delicate dance
threatening
but gone in the blink of an eye

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A brown curled claw
skittering along the ground
Singular movement amidst
the frozen expanse of pavement
Only when you get close enough to see the fingers,
knuckles scraping the rocky surface,
can you distinguish the knobs of an oak leaf,
stem protruding like a tail
Propelled by the wind
a legion of birds wrapped in wing
a chipmunk
a squirrel,
a lizard scampering by
All alive according to the eye
But in this cold raw place between snow and spring
dry, brittle leaves are all that dance
born on the rhythm of weather patterns and wishful thinking