blown

before time passed in lurching regularity

or colors were taped to there objects,

way back when stars were candles

and death was an optional thing.

 

i caught the wind.

 

the sent of blue sky just after lighting still comes to mind

the cats breath breeze ghosting over my skin.

i, a child who thinks he has ensnared an insect,

the wind in my cupped hand ,

peering eagerly to see-

i found it had flown.

 

and still i look

even now, years later when color is flat and time is rough.

i follow the wind into full  sails and  on top of tall sea cliffs.

i keep my hands open, because someday-

i’ll catch it

-paris blye

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