my power is in my words

words chosen by me

strong and bold

because I own

my awareness

my art swings around my body

like a spiral of wind

flinging all unnecessary

distractions aside

a whirlwind

that protects and insulates

spinning me to the places

I need to go

out the door

down the street

and out of sight

there it was

alone in the wild

all lost and raggedy

so she took it home

and found something for it

when she turned around

it blended in with its surroundings so well

that she didn't really notice it anymore

but one day the wind came

and blew it away

she was glad she had it memorized

She wanders into transparent pastel meadows

filled with wildflowers

and the auras of a guiding moon. 

she walks the rose petal path

she sleeps on steadfast silver clouds

she eats rainbow soup and sunshine crackers

she feels sparkles of opportunity all around her

with transcendent brushes

she paints the iridescent memories of her ancestors

so I got out my scissors

and cut it all up

all the ties binding me to things

I shook free

and spread out

hesitant to think

the freshness here now

I will defend my territory

for the time being

I want to go home

but I don't know where that is

I walk from room to room

calling your name

and the silence that follows

like a place card

facing an empty chair

is the certainty I need

to move on

kind eyes

to see you in your light

to see you whole

the way a human is beheld

by the ages, in the molecules

of sweet incomparability

come out, come out, where ever you are

the flowers whispered to her

this is silence

this is empty

this is dust settling

the aftermath

the end

the precious stillness

potent with its incipient power

I am ok with it

and after this intentional pause

I will smile

it showed in her eyes I think

the light shifting around inside

but it would not be until later

when the answer would come

when I catch the wind

I'll sway a bit

then fall

and when the next breeze swirls in

away I will go

I told my mom that spring had not come yet.

See, the trees are still bare.

You will not lie here looking out your window

at the blossoming branches.

You will not be deprived of the warm sunshine and green grass.

She looked at me with sympathy.

She was unable to speak.

She did not miss the spring but, as delicate beauty holds inside it

the fierce indifference

of forward movement,

the spring missed her.

And so do I.