Miniature storms rolled by today
as trees, like dry forks,
stood in shock, frozen
by the universal constant.
Changing winds like hands at
a poker table asked the green
beneath to rise up once again,
like a steam awakening from a
dream, so that it may return
to mud footprints,
and shell-less beaches.
Questions, like red-pepper,
stung the opportunities
for hopeful promises and confident,
nonchalant retorts, the real poisons,
to arise; drawing the eye astray,
into doubt, regret, distrust,
truth.
Today, stories, drifting in and out of meaning,
wondered if meaning has meaning, if
meaning
is important.
Today
it isn't.
Today, the story is a memory,
an assumption, a supposition. It is
in fact, a misty vapor that compels the
heart forward, and the mind backward
until the body has become a storm.
Today, I laid in the grass as
the raindrops of my own personal
spring drenched me in green
and suddenly,
I felt change
rising beneath me.