by Gideon Burton
With soft inflections caught upon my skin
between the twilight crickets' chirping thrum,
the summer tells me language of the wind
as time leaves off where starlight heat’s begun.
A pulse, a wisping, folds of clearest cloth,
the breathing air from canyons out to sea;
it circles back, a weightless, whitest moth,
and yet the wind speaks heavily to me.
Sometimes a smell that tells of forests near
or salty with the oceans’ memory.
It is the medium, the silent seer
that shouts among the branches of the trees.
So teach me, flowing air against my cheek.
Your presence is a gift that I must seek.
Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo: flickr - Jingles the Pirate