Nature – with impeccable force – blows the air around Her,
Her breath dancing on a mirror
like a ghost in the evening.
i cannot see Her face – She never
looks me in the eye, but still – the fog
skews my sight and hides the
blades of the grass and bark of the
tree. i am struck by these wonders,
like the bloom in early march; my
grief leaves me as easy as sight
did in this condition. now, in the
morning, i can only offer my navigation
to a certain extent. i still stumble,
and the anger bubbles like the early
stages of boiling. i rub my eyes
hoping this dream will leave me soon,
knowing that the only way to break the spell is to reach out and wipe the mirror
with my hands