Along the singing wind,
narrating stories to its attentive as to its wayward.
Across the weeping rivers,
as they bemoan all that the mountains amass.
As whispers in the tresses, pulled back and behind memory’s ears.
Careening glances still holding sway endearing the breeze to stay.
“Awhile, and hear ye.”
Cajoling the senses, like a mage in an image,
insentient yet animated.
And as a cloudburst in an idea’s pop,
hopped along like a racehorse in an era of fables.
A stabler hand would have stead over the chariot of focus,
but a shining curve seldom saves its smile for another day.
Like a bent tree, caught by the wind after the rain,
glowing yet in the promise to rise again.
Saving grace in the blink of an eye, unnoticed until you think to call it.
Like the wingtip through the cloud of thought-constructs.
The silver lining in the glistening drop of sweat,
cooling the breath to its ethereal net.
Windswept, in its wild reverb,
listening and adhering to the swerve.
To witness the moment pass.
The second curves to straighten the hand of time,
in the music of the pause,
align.
In a fiery musing of silence, words enshrined.