wind makes music
by ages old recipe,
and i read her shadow, standing
between the light and the blackness,
within fire, and not outside the permafrost,
shadow, written of half-recollected chunks
of what my blood has been way back
when i was no more.
wind cuts the reeds in palpable swaths
and they crackle into pipes,
keening
my unremembered dream, fresh
from this night, when she and i
met again, and our hands got entangled
in shadows, unable, dismembered,
reaching through the music of time
and leaving untouched, only a ghost
of what could have been, should have –
and durst not happen.
wind, trapped in the reeds
sings piercing, bitter-sweet
and i remember her touch
like a melody.
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