A message of sorts

A white rag rides the wind
An urgent breath that rasps against roofs
As it complains at closed spaces
The writer sits, a quiet thing, compressed, alone

Across each still page
Those that slumber wait
To find a word that might animate
The being within

All across the world cells divide
Skin flakes from dormant forms
Winds roar and shake
Or rain spills or the sun bakes

Each sound, each tremulous experience
Is plaintive. Past capture
We accelerate beyond now with slippy fingers
Looking back. Taking stock of the dropped ball

An imperceptible shift. The common drift
Letters dragged across a membrane
Scrapings of memory
The sharp tearing of reality

Outside the wind has risen
Howling. Hungry, wolf-like
Immune to sentimental post-cards
From the edge of self