Holding the Wind
By Zarah Parker

Like a hand grasping at wind
only to begin to grasp
at my own.

What I’ve built becomes rubble,
the hands wipe dirt upon
my sleeves and wash them in
cold water—nonchalant,
as if they are the creation
and I, the vessel.

As a flightless bird
finds their wings
spread in the midst of
the expanse.

Two minds.

 


 

I’ve been a bit incognito lately. Busy, busy, busy. Won’t be posting again until the end of the month (hopefully.)

How have you been?