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!
