andate e ritorni

After chasing lightening
through the cold,
she whispers,

"Kiss these sacred stones alive,
with me, c'mon, just try."

Torrential silver drips
across her tiny dreams,
across the seams of pollen
flying into golden cups.
The wounded snow
has gone away,
but in its place,
the hollow gaze of crows.
Below bare branches
fingering a fruitless sky,
her stomping grace.
Steps that snap dead vines
without remorse,
spread clustered seeds
in hieroglyphic meaning,
disseminating words
that punctuate a spell
across bold earth.
It reads, 'Not yet, not yet'.
And so she drags soft hands
across the shaled ledge,
her geologic gait,
her gentle press
of frozen phonemes,
stones arranged
to frame the edge
of lichened border trails.
Burnt umber threads
that promise presence
kindly left behind
for strangers to decode.

"This valley will soon crack with spring
and little buds will fling
this crystal-hammered air
into the lake."

She sways
to catch the pulse
of gushing brooks.

"Release your emerald green
like little melting tears,
like love inside my eyes,
like gleaming april crowns
of earth squeezed tight
against the stinging winds,
past seasons sailing inbetween.
And do it soon!"

Apparently,
the slow-sprung warmth
of dawn's red praying knees
is all she needs,
at three years old,
to just beleive.

"A sign taken alone seems dead.
What gives it life? It lives through its use.
Does it have in itself the breath of life?
Or is the use its breath?"
(L. Wittgenstein)