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 —

Now. 

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.

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