Thursday


It comes from your hands when you brush your hair back,
and you felt it for a moment, the power in your hands
rushing into you from outside the mountains,
from the path that you are taking down into the valley, 
deep, where the wind does not blow easy but fierce and calm--
and in your feet, 
pounding the pebbles into dust, 
billowing behind you as you rush on, fast with inertia and frenetic movement
as the deer bounds with you down,
both inhaling the white air and the timber green feeling
of being yours,
and belonging to your earth.

photo via.

1 comment:

nikolesparks said...

these are honestly beautiful.
i keep coming here to get a breath of fresh air.
keep writing. it's something you were made to do.