An Hour On Foot

An hour on foot

to restore magic within the head.

The twilight feel of a storm’s leading edge.

The sun swiftly occluded,

wind stirring the trees into strange ritual dance.

And the feet keep time,

freeing the ego to fade for an interlude,

freeing the heart to play with sense unfiltered.

The wind whirling is music without instrument,

a rising and falling song for the earless.

And the well opens in your belly,

a pulsing liquid tension threatening

to reflect the cascading nowness

of everything and everyone around.

Threatening to make we strangers in the street

flash fully telepathic and naked to each other’s

whispers and intents.

The invisible pushing air binds all,

rippling the skirts of passing girls,

hands clutched in firm prevention.

Litter in flight both given and discarded,

from trees and villain alike,

runs in choreographed streams and eddies,

pecking at faces bravely peering into this change

that takes us all.

This changing life,

this marked day,

this blackness without night.