What was the world while the wind swept through it? What were the obstacles removed to seed the path? The cold toothed zephyrs nibbling on the golden sun and the blue sky and the green dreams reaching, winter waiting where the weather gives out. The gutted hungers and rush of appetite always almost arriving, almost always about to go. The change we are and the changes we are blamed for, the birds of a feather tethered to the flock, the fruit of the tree and how far it falls. The masks worn for your approval, the shiny skins that fill the bins. The kings of kinship, the ghosts of all alone.
So here we are, in the crisp blue afternoon. So here we go, all brass knuckles and smudged blood. The wind whips up the unseen legions, seed and spore and fellow travelers, the words in raucous concentrations and bitter drizzles. The smoke drawls and sprints, its split allegiances sorted by fiat, the sky all gusts and gasps. The spring unwinds along ley lines and expected engines, old gods and ancient mechanisms unfurled on field and branch. This reach in receipt, the call of stars and the strength of roots, feathers up in heaven and flowers in your crown.
I am a path that faltered, a fallen tree, a stone in the shoe of the earnest traveler. I am the embers and the ashes, the fire found extinguished but still warm. Father to abortions and miscarriages, placeholder and adept of the open stance, a home for sins and strays. The swollen ocean and the oaths of orphans, bones dressed in the tattered whispers of ghosts. Another set of embellished burnings, salt and cinders and the window wanton with the night. Words and fire and second hand empires. The sky bright and the winds wild, another sun gone down.