Words now

come a half-step short of the stair,

one breeze shy of the butterfly,

for a blink of my eye carries too many stories,

too little sense heavy

inside bones that make me

and keep me

here,

now.

Words might dribble out. . .

missing the earthen nobility of their rise;

Instead, quiet

sensing

initiates movement forward,

outward

into something that has never yet been.

Following body first,

leagues of time,

thirsty and bent grasslands stretching

horizon to horizon,

pass,

pinning me to learning that

Life

depends upon.