I’m watching my body shift

like the landscape outside the window

and it’s like spring won’t wait

with new blooms -fresh and unexpected

as I am caught unawares

feeling overwhelmed and eager

to rush across the room

just for a hug, long and warm

warm as the sun in March

trumping a windy day

a first kiss for an old body

feeling new yet inevitable.

Most days feel

dual, being a visitor of places

and resident of none

as the body becomes the vessel,

love becomes the home,

and people are mirages,

one after the other.

Beyond the brink of this time

is a whole

made of chaos and music and light,

and the damnable thing

about staying still

is you can only have one at a time.

Bits of scripture remembered

out of context

(there are no deserts here)

and an online shopping cart

full of books, bras, and bangles

to offset the feeling

of rushing down the stairs

three at a time with little fear,

just like at 13 when I was almost done

growing and yet nowhere near grown.

Who knew if the danger would come

from outside or within?

Movement was the default.

Heading anywhere with no sense

of direction is terrifying.

Today, I am just where I am.

I rushed for almost 30 years

and did I ever get anywhere?

They often stop at four winds.

I don’t know who “they” are

or why they stick to cardinal directions

but I have felt at least twelve

whipping at me on my hill.

The wind cries. Sometimes it’s “Mary”

and sometimes it howls or begs or

just presses right through you

like a ghost chilling your bones.

Some people chase wind for a living

while some hoard metaphors about it

like acorns to last the winter.

I like to sing with it. It’s always harmonious

and one of my best friends.

In a corner of the highlands

with the forest behind us,

wind whips forward

making it hard to look back

Imagining between blinks

this world or that one

either way, us,

on days of love and ash

It’s one flower below

on a stark sea of winter

our petals shake

away emptiness for a laugh