windy compared to lull,
i sit outside the passing squall
of changing northern shapes.
but in a beautiful breath
that feels exhaled for me.

threads, they fall and brush
with intimate intention,
against my arm of chicken skin.
they leave a tender tickle
of pure chaotic invention.

i take comfort in their productive touch,
efforts made with ease;
they steal my mind from chaos
as they dance with interlude.
i glance their glorious wonder.

i'm touched inside by these,
because they needn't dance for me.
they leave behind a taste,
i know, can not stay.
so i sit, grasping, sifting,

as they slip away.
calling, dancing, preaching,
"interlude!"...."interlude"