There is a door between the captured air and the free.
Go through it, empty-handed.
Out there, in field and forest,
run without weight of costume and script;
you, grasshoppers, rabbits, dandelions spring up.
In dirt you have common ground.
It is enough.
Put your ear to the earth.
Feel the rumble of highway traffic fade and the crescendo of
black snakes curling, groundhogs burrowing, scurry of insects,
the echoes of lives long wrapped in this clay.
You are no stranger here, no–
you are of this place and this day.
Spin with arms held like kite strings.
The wind gusts away layers of time;
it whirls from your eyes, the dust of hours.
Swallow sunlight and your larynx is clean of the unspoken
and spoken alphabet of regret–
open your hands and sing.
Held up to sunbeams, river rocks shine.
Baked pine-straw scents the air, crunches beneath your feet.
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