Before
the world was steady and still–
soft ankle grass hugging loose.
The blades didn’t breathe
(me neither)
my hair caught the chapstick
(staying put)
I held the book with one hand—
not a page shivered.

But the clouds are moving
faster, now,
breezy currents come.
My hair tocks like 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.

What do I prefer?

Absolute uninterrupted sense of presence
or
the chance to feel
my knees draw tight to my chest
my hair leaping against my cheek
a 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 fire.


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