Disturbed ground -
A feather on the snow -
Wood split from weight.
And we move our hips, legs undulating.
It is like a butterfly fluttering its wings in sunlight.
A kiss of caves, flowers, snakes writhing.
You can unfold it -
Just like the muscle of the heart.
On the verge of war.
Before Times. End Times.
In my dream, the wind blew all my scarves away as I looked on in awe at their undulating forms.
Just like when I was a child -
Nightly haunts of my psyche at the hands of the wind and its moan.
Sometimes it’s enough knowing the storm is unfolding right outside your window.
The glass is no reprieve.
Somewhere between soft and hard.
Somewhere between obsession and distance.