Descending air moves suspended water
down hill sides as I trace a painted line
which follows a remembered path that lies
nestled in sides. Now quiet. Stony Run.
From my opening door warmth billows out
along the length of my arm, and rolls off
my gloved hand. The vapours recoil in
the chill, with nowhere to go but out side.
Air gilded by crystal fibers, small flash
frozen lovers, fingers and palms and wrists
and arms. My eyes follow each twisted trail.
Small subjects, each adrift in moon and wind.
Nothing complacent in their journey. Each
facet direct change, in motion through space
in time, until touch lights on a final
spot to rest: a berth, a hollowéd home.
More than motion. Form falls on eyelashes
and on the black wool that wraps me up tight.
But with my gloves off, I can feel sharp heat
as the moment frozen lands on my skin.
A sudden fear of forced loss chills my spine
still quickly shattered by blue Silvertone
sounding me through new phrases from old lines.
Something more than endless combinations.
In that pause, I open up both naked
hands to the sky to feel the past move me
to smile as I stick out my tongue and taste
another piece falling from heaven.
My fingers grasp now animated time
melting to travel along my life lines.
Cold warmed, ethereal made tangible,
protected love moves through a door up stairs.