Diving deep into my memories,
Where winds whisper, and waves clash with melancholy.
Echoes of freedom, I can’t always recreate—
Yet in every storm, I anchor in faith,
Sailing toward dreams and higher conscious states,
Seeking peace and tranquility, where I calmly escape.

crow cries   metalling the skies
supply the greys
and hack up the winds

I often walk through my garden
Alone,
That I may simply
Exist amidst the soft breeze, and
Contemplate upon the stillness,
Until existence itself becomes so,
So light and delicate, that
Even the mildest wind could
Gently whisk me away.

Wind swirling slowly
Reminds of streams trickling by
Sand through the hourglass

I am the wind
The merest breath
on the baby’s cheek
as she sleeps
her evening sleep

I am
the bracing wind
that reddens cheeks
and teases skittish cats

I am the gust
that startles birds
to quarrel
in their trees

I am the gale
that wrecks the ship
The hurricane that
shatters worlds

The autumn moon was receeding
At 5 AM this morning
Riding the wave of seasons
Wind stirring in a constant dance with the leaves

My cold mug of milk set upon the wire table outside
Under the Serviceberry
So I can pet the dog.

Kinetic shadows on the table
Wisped and whipped over the mug
Laying upon the white liquid
Thicker than the reflected light and dark. Boundaries that can't be bought.

Did the shadows, could the shadows, penetrate the surface of the milk?
Going deeper in where I can not see
To a place furrowed low
Perceived, yet not seen.

Is it a place with a soul
Creamy and still
Unmatched like time, marching or halting, that
which we can not ever hold?
Shadows on milk do not sink.

Run, run while you can;
while your toes can spring from the asphalt;
while time is on your side
and the wind is behind you,
and the world is a trail of blur.

The cartilage of your joints,
fresh and oleaginous,
pliable as your young mind,
can take you to your destiny;
can satiate wanderlust,
a bitter aftertaste for a time long gone
of a weary spirit
tenant to a rigid flesh.

Breathe
the scent of life in.
Let your lungs and air,
like lovers who have folded
the distance between them,
savor the embrace
throbbing in their minds at night.
Breathe the scent in,
in time,
they grow stale,
planted in water by the bedside
wilting with apologies
and well wishes
dancing to the music
of beeping machines.

Up the hills if you must;
through mist,
yielding not an inch
to questions
doubt pours on the road.
Against the unwillingness
of your body,
defy,
and when its defiance ripens
in its season,
your spirit shall burden
it a heavy swathe of obstinacy.
So run,
for the loan of time digs deep in the pocket to claim interest,
pay your heart in full,
before foreclosure.
Time inevitably demands its due.

—e.d. maramat | erwinism