Dust to Dust: The next P. poem.

Dust to Dust:

Coming from wood

when he stood, still

as air after a thunderstorm,

his mind dripping - raindrops off leaf

and branch - memory and thoughts,

blue words falling from a mother’s disappointment

so soft the little boy strains to hear

and in the effort remembers the lesson.

Coming from wood

when he stood, feet,

hidden in a darkness

where air lives in pockets - forever trapped

in the desire

to remerge with each other. Toes

set into the soil,

roots that seep in dirt’s sea of  earthly secrets

to steal riches, carry

them towards the light

and offer them to the sun.

Coming from wood

when he stood, eyes

closed so the world dissolved

into scents and smells and the sunshine caressed

and the damp earth nourished,

he felt himself spread out large and thin -

a bridesmaid’s veil tossed into the sky

floating flimsy, folding

back upon itself, in the air

transparent and free.

Eventually he must land

but in those moments

when he let himself go

for seconds or minutes he felt his leaves

and his wind-chime heart

tinkled back at the world.