Long ago, an incorporeal god of light named Belgrin flew over the face of the earth searching for new and interesting objects to illuminate. When he found a young woman named Isil, he stopped. He was ... [+]
There was a wilder
tinge to the air—purple-
scented, fennel fronds shaking green as parties
filigreed
as when a child I used to draw
mermaid and merman's hair.
A storm blowing
through, wind in the tunnel of the throat
and rushing
from the mouth. A story caw-cawing from the branches.
The pines wave back and forth, thrash
the sky. Soft spruce needle whisks, egg-froth of clouds.
To be of the storm, to enter it.
To be entirely air.
tinge to the air—purple-
scented, fennel fronds shaking green as parties
filigreed
as when a child I used to draw
mermaid and merman's hair.
A storm blowing
through, wind in the tunnel of the throat
and rushing
from the mouth. A story caw-cawing from the branches.
The pines wave back and forth, thrash
the sky. Soft spruce needle whisks, egg-froth of clouds.
To be of the storm, to enter it.
To be entirely air.