Do you know how it feels
to stand alone in a forest
in the caesura
of a gathering storm?
With a graceful pirouette
the north wind about-faces
and just as quickly
a sou’ wester replaces
the breathy, dry kisses
of long afternoons in the sun.
Drawing breath from your lungs
and heat from your soles,
lowercase twisters
scatter leaves with abandon.
There’s a pause,
it is electric,
then thunder above.
A first splash, the herald,
caresses your skin
and whispers of days
when you sucked the air in
and laughed until laughter ran dry;
when you danced and you sang
and timeless, you lay
entwined ‘neath an indigo sky.
In that place, alone,
your lenses will fail
and your notebook fall
by the by.
Your shutter can’t capture
the depths of magenta;
your pen,
the dreaming Magpie.
It’s a moment,
just a moment,
before the storm breaks
and the old song
resumes its same rhyme.
Do you feel it?
Can you grab it?
A resolution, of sorts:
to wring from
each minute
a lifetime.
by Ryan Stone
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