A single shadow falls
from my feet into the forest
The wind has wet weather
in its mouth
Words splinter, running away
and I chase as fast as a thought
As fast as a hand might grasp another
touch and examine- lines, scars, patterns
Whose hand then?
Writhing in my palm
Fingers washing a story onto my skin
So now I prepare to decide
What has this year produced
What notions remain
Were the moments as rich as the story
Will my bruises and cuts heal
Another feast that strikes the year in questions
Each finger a different place to follow
A valley, a curve, an edge, a health mark in every nail
All you need is glove.
Eye eye, who am I.
4 hours ago