the air is dressed in a hint of
paper, this morning, a swath of
bark, shattered and smashed.

it strains to lure me away to
another time, another place.

and while, before,
i might have said,
i will not stay your hand,

today, i sing a different song.

sitting in a mild cross-breeze
of south and west,
i know,

not even the air, with its
wiley ways, can make me
fly outside of myself.

oh, no!
not even you, air!

not even a legion of elements!