writing from 7/20/2012
Morning stillness. The wind carries nothing. Chirps hang in the air until they drop —
Turning into whipped cream on their way to my ears.
I want the wind back. Desperately wish it here.
But it’s gone —
So I create in stillness, with the memory of the wind.
I write in the silence that is the low hanging window of time that could be day or night —
Words dangling like leaves from the branch of life.
So close, so studious in the light —
A warble away.
A flicker in empty space.
We rest together in hang time.