gust and guts | poem

Held by the wet rain, on concrete.
Laid bent, under sky.

A corner lifts to catch a drift.
Along the fold, into its gust.

Feverish, furious, dancing.
Off without caution, less will.

No hands to hold, still.
Held by all that’s paused, hopeful.
Nothing but the wind pulls.
Me, I let it.

Over trees, under bridges, frozen.
Current state of mind.
Less control now.

Into my own ocean, wide.
Mouthful of mirrored sky.
Swallows me whole.

Stuck, deep in its ripple.
Waves of storm, windy swell.
Pulls me under again.

(Feb 2025)

Photo: Painting by me.

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