longing
longing
propped on one elbow
to face out my eleventh story window
outside
snow caught in the tiny streams of air
plummet
reverse
sideswiped
the tight precise arc of rise and fall
impossibly quick
the intricacies of their pattern
paternal to my inability to see
beyond the grains of a tibetan mural
beyond the digits of universal equations
beyond the words of our last three years
i lay back down
longing for the ceiling
to get caught in my eye
longing to seal in the
art
with a sigh
am i the wind?
am i a powerful and driving force
creating vast patterns with glimpses of beauty
in tiny pockets so hidden
only God could appreciate them
or
am i the countless blossoming crystals
racing to the resting in a cement coffin
dying without a sound
without an inscape
without a sound
longing
longing
instress
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