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Description
There is a secret at
the tips of the trees,
in the newly blooming buds
opening like a child's
unmolested eyes and
rubbing away the
crust of
another Winter.

In the pale blue patches
peeking from behind
cloudy curtains,
rays dripping
the promises of
tomorrow's warmth
into our eager mouths.

We drink as if a
thousand years of drought
have been unleashed upon our
throats
and every drop
is a reminder of what it's like
to crave release.

I'm overturning every rock,
spreading the moss
in even layers across
my bones,
braiding the ivy
into separate strands
of my hair-
anything to understand
the patterns etched
in limestone,
inscriptions I ache
to uncover.

The wind's voice
is a warm hand upon
my face,
a reassuring thumb
tracing my cheekbones;
consoling the
uncertainty of a child
refusing to accept
defeat.

Hell, it feels good
to breathe again...
cleaner air from
this point
on.