a spirit watches over ice and sky…
Pursed lips
blow a wind lyric over
misty lavender terrain-
frosted with gold dust.
Long fingers tap from behind, signaling
“hear the mountains-their sweet, icy songs will
melt on your tongue.”
There is a gentle pressing,
a weightless presence on your shoulders,
to dream the breath
of ashen bog hurling upward to the sky,
where it grasps the stars and spills-
over the clouds and onto solitude-
back to the edge of perfection.
