nostalgia
i glance back for only a moment, but hiding behind some ill-defined existence, i see her.
i see her sinking slowly into an ashen sea. her gaze reaching for mine. her hair reaching for the moon, like vines climbing for the sun. her lips parted and motionless and conceiving a breath which says, “you can always come home to this place of birth. you were born to a mother, and she too was born to a mother, and so on in a long line of mothers going back until the first mother, Lilith, who is of this place.”
i feel the frostbitten vastness in her touch, and i taste the sweetness of nostalgic decay in the water; and i know, some day i will come and i’ll stay
August
this wind, she is saying something gentle.
something said in braille across my skin
something soft to rumble against my ears
something for the trees to sing and the grass to sway.
an impression— like a memory.
one that i can’t be certain ever happened,
yet one i believe in just as much as anything else.
something amazing i guess…
i am patient, but the time always comes; and
someone has cracked a shell, and i can see the light though my thumbs; and
tomorrow i’ll have the wind in my breast; and
if you ask me, that’s something amazing i guess…
wrinkled sheets
gentle sunlight warms my face and the first thing i see when i open my eyes is the
fan in the widow.
i can hear the breeze outside, and
in that brief moment i fall in love with the wind—
one time or another
gentle hands, dirt, and mud
another giggle, wet grass, sun
my mother’s mother
spring visions
standing in the grass, a newborn sun kissing my cheeks, i inhale the cool breeze
sometime later, with the sun now to my back,
i exhale and with contented joy— dancing from my lips a company of moths