There are times when the strum of wind
shakes me, turns me nearly inside out.
The hidden skin on my neck awakens
as if your hand riffled my hair
or a drifting leaf grazed my hand
as we daydream on the rocks,
while below shines the silvered green mirror
of the lazy, wending river.
It’s not a startle of romance, nor its memory.
It’s a shy jumping up and spinning
of my spirit, jostled from sleepwalking.
My heart, bare ember, catches a gust
and it grows, it glows beneath
imperturbable clouds, this haunted world.
When alone I go, I wait for visitations of air
arriving from mountains, from sea,
my hair billowing, a net of sail filled,
and everything that makes up this small body
hears the call and I levitate far
beyond our words, beyond regret