I face the wind;
Currents of time that score my brow
With textured text;
Memories that run
Downstream toward falls that plunge headlong
Into inkwells of darkness.
But with stained hands,
And thoughts once fought, I break the surface
Of blackness to light.
Where each stroke I take
Reduces life’s liquid to a mist, as it changes
From text to thought.
And with my arms quiet,
Devoid of the motion that once pushed at rivers,
I bathe in the now still wind.