Monday, November 22, 2010

Days When the Birds Fly Through You

Today is beautiful, like Spring. It is perfect for a song. What do you think of birds singing? And flying? They are whipped up with the delight of warm weather. And I, with the thought of no Winter. It is a name. So I make it big. Frost is a name, but many make it little. My feet are dancing through the close air now. The air that doesn't show itself, the air that falls around us as we sleep in our beds. The air that doesn't know you. The noise blends me into a pattern of smoothed up sand. Sand that the wind shaped. The same wind burns the skin. My skin is like the sand. Smooth to look at, ancient to feel. What is the sand under water? The sand in the ocean? The sand that doesn't know air. When it is brought to the surface does it feel the same as the dry desert sand? Babies come out of the ocean. They become what we are. You should know the air. Come back from dust with water and air. Look the same as the sand and move back to where I bring you. I couldn't let the snow cover you. The snow, like sand, in drifts collected by the air. I keep you in my room, where our air settles all around. We take it in, you have no lungs. The air adorns your bronze house. It touches you, soft, like piano keys. Can you hear the song the air plays for you? I cannot. But I think that when your breath went out it must have made a new home away from your body. I think that it is here and it falls all around us as we sleep in our beds. I cannot hear the song, but I feel it sometimes. You do not know the air, you are the air. And oh how I feel you.
Night, night Frost
Mama loves you

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