Without a bowl,
it’s only hands
(cupped together)
trying a steady reach;
with incessant cracking,
there’s no holding on
for long.

Impossibly dense,
toss some shade
before the light turns;
flipping off
imagined trials
while revving
nowhere.

A movement drawn
between planes
of light and music,
where touch
is incendiary
and thought
secondary.

Rolling clouds, over sun,
over hills and through my window
like a slap in the face
dispelling the dark inside-

it is difficult
holding onto righteous pity
in the face of sun.

I.

A terrible wind
kept me from descending
the other side of the upper knoll-
I should have known
my walk was not meant to be
when a gust slammed the car door,
cutting my leg
as I tried to get out,
but yet I tried to make the trail…

II.

Clouds moved swiftly
with a rolling March thunder
and I could see rain
over the hills nearby.

I paused near woods’ edge,
watching bare trees bend
and lake waves crash on the dock.
My time slipped away faster
with words unused.

III.

A buffeting cold
increased with each step.
The clouds seemed to pick up speed.
My boots sank in wet leaves.
I felt a little disoriented,
sky and earth spinning.
Like I had lived this moment before
and was about to choose
a different end.

IV.

There was something lurking
just past the footbridge –
I could not see it, but a presence
pulled at me to turn back.

I made a choice
to turn away,
ignoring curiosity
because I am used to being filled
with wonder.