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

I felt a little stuck

for no good reason

so I scrolled through my photos

to look for proof of life-

what have I snapped lately?

A lake, a piano, a daughter,

a meme, some trees, a flourish.

These constitute life

or maybe just dreams of life

– is there a difference?

The selfie with aging smile,

a series of photos of vibrant gardens,

screenshots of chats to remember

tell me I was someplace though

I haven’t moved much.

How do you prove life

if it’s but a dream?

Without a thought

any more fleshed out

than the fuzziest of vagabond dreams,

I started singing

a song that had not existed yet.

The verses were like

waves of Venice lapping at the edges

of stone and singing gondoliers;

the choruses were like the best violent love.

The words were sparks

and my voice worked through me

just as designed, but the music

was more than the sum of its parts,

gilt and grit and forest and sea.

I walked among trees and dreamt of rain,

enough rain to wash me out to sea

with ice and sun both.

We are of the elements

in the after times,

when violence has passed.