Sta.sh
Cold and Battled
by ~RuneshaiThe wind batters me,
billowing my hair across my face,
the little house stands there,
atop its tree-like stilts;
perched precariously,
mocking my aloneness,
my weather-beaten state.
The children laugh,
strapped in their race-carriages;
runners run and walkers walk;
bikers bike and couples talk,
all except me, I'm afraid.
Set against a grapefruit sky,
the birds soar alone
and I wish I had wings.
Buoys blink and tree limbs tremble.
A storm's coming.
I can feel it.
My storm is coming.
I can feel that too.
So I'll walk barefoot through the grass,
battered by the wind,
taunted by the cold and the dark, ashen clouds,
mocked by the house and people and the sky,
and still I will wish that I had wings,
and not just this pen and paper.
And it mocks me also,
for it has a purpose,
and I set it about its purpose
and it verifies its purpose with every word.
But not me, I'm afraid.
Give me wings of paper
and courage of ink
and still I am not satisfied.
Give me chill of wind and footing of earth;
give me feast of sky
and people
and birds
though they are also the people known as "women";
give me life with water
and grass
and sound
and taste
and smell
and touch,
and still I will wish that I had wings.
For there is also fear,
fear and anger and anguish,
jealousy and greed.
You gave me all of these and more
and yet no manner of telling when one changes into another.
And so I am left to test.
And so I walk home.
And tonight I think I'll dream of wings.
But maybe not.
