Like a cold, deep fog,
into a field of low volume static, bearing the ritual sacrifice of the day.
A jumper, sequinned with ice, embroidered with stones, and tired river clay.
To my surprise, the ground began to move. It shook like a leaf on a body of wind, and I shivered, fearing falling, into the void, not only having no place to safely land, but losing my jumper and the tray it was on.
A baking tray from the local shop costs _________.
The surface broke as shadowy signals unfurled like flags into the intently watching sky.
The edges linked, and became a wide, screeching tower of wind, around which I gingerly walked.
Bitter voices tore at my ears,
Dreary lines engulfed my fluttering envelopes.
We laughed as my bravery slumped into the recesses of the painting like light fleeing from the shadows.
In the storm cloud, I grew. Just a tiny flame feeding on pieces of sky.
Forgotten by summer.
Time raised me as an old child, quietly making me a coat for the snow and rains.
You can’t see it.
It’s part of my skin.
Moves in my breath.