Before,
the world was steady and still
soft ankle grass hugging loose
not breathing
(me either)
my hair catching the chapstick
(staying put)
I held the book with one hand—
not a page shivered.

But the clouds are moving faster, now—
the wind has arisen.
My bangs (my fringe) a windshield wiper
the grass rushes (still soft, it tickles)
my two fingers spring cold at the ends.
I breathe, to warm myself
the birds are my echo
these clouds my muse.

I close the book
it rests on my knees—
it ruffles, tickled by grass.

Do I prefer
absolute uninterrupted sense of presence—
or
the chance to feel
my knees draw tight into my chest
my hair leap against my cheek
meditating fire and breath?

The grass is shivering (me too) we
shiver together (it tickles)
I hug myself tighter,
glad for the cold
reminder that I am my own
very portable heater.

 

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