come a half-step short of the stair,
one breeze shy of the butterfly,
for a blink of my eye carries too many stories,
too little sense heavy
inside bones that make me
and keep me
Words might dribble out. . .
missing the earthen nobility of their rise;
initiates movement forward,
into something that has never yet been.
Following body first,
leagues of time,
thirsty and bent grasslands stretching
horizon to horizon,
pinning me to learning that