Pale green the spring air, a little wind
makes breathing labored
so that some retorts are a gasping thing,
grasping for a hold
finding it easier to breathe
when looking up at heights
unimaginable – disimagined, detached
as the views can be better
with eyes firmly shut
at least when we’re children
dreaming without knowing
better
Wherever you are
I am on the other side
recognizing a symbiosis with moss
and how good it it feels to dwell in fog
softly climbing, falling apart a little
on the way up
incomparable (pick your pronunciation)
in the moonlight, the poet said at lunch,
the tearing apart of paths
to the music of birds no matter the weather
feathers holding together
a larger picture
with bustling people in faceless cities
and houses waiting to be filled and loved
with people who want the same
down the lane, a few hours from lunch.
The Word Rummager 
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