Sweep gently cross the light hairs,
Gracing the tender neck and head,
Blow to criss-cross, part, then unfold
Touching, tickling, ever so lightly.

Small the rise of goose flesh
A silent, tender shutter on the skin
Another creature touched
A stroke of the Nights wind.

Solitude, never crowd
Leaves the senses open, aware to feel
The blade that only scars, never cuts
The heart.  Being alone.

Sanctity and reverence, something holy
Peers inside the soul,
Snatching a few tiny seconds
Taking them off, on the Night winds blow.