the roaring wind whistles a polar me,
opposing freely,
a hushful respite,
inside today,
silent me.
sitting in dreams,
stuck in sleeping bags,
the night before,
before the morning snagged,
my lucid want,
my lucid haunt.
outside, the wind and sun,
blow fiercely through,
the dead dried leaves,
the dusty dung,
brown, unsung,
chaos flying,
above the roof,
around the fence,
at pasture’s hooves,
one last breath spent.
again here lie,
the dreams that drift,
the dreams that die,
sounding out February's cry,
singing her last goodbye.
while the trance settles,
and untangles,
and I, sitting quiet,
witnessing the bendy brambles.
~Lana Maree Haas