An old poem of mine, because it came out of the shadows the very day I needed it.
Café in the Clouds: This Woman at (not so) 40
Heart, lungs inside ribs, a winged beat.
I become.
Angel –yes–
I ascend.
Nearly-perfect-joy sky.
Clouds forming words, eyelashes
beds of dermal layers. Cloud-shawl.
Clouds shadowing one another.
Openings peaking to everyday.
Part of but lifted up from.
AKA The world is my shoebox.
Cirrus. Whisps, whispers stretched, endless
The power of touch, word
across a line,
sky,
world.
Cirrus. To open wide, filament across.
A pizza dough's stretch.
Arched, feathered
Tethered to earth by a tiny radio. (Wave.)
I am what I do. I am what I do.
Here. The world is my whisper, yes.
Cirrus. Circus. Ease’s greatest.
My skin has lifted away.