It is still dry
The wind blows, the leaves, feathers, grass flies above the ground
Some call this a sickly heat
A depressed lawn, crunching underfoot
A bird call in the afternoon
Solitary cloud
But it is the smell of liberation
Not a fragranced masked scent behind the door
This heat bring my head up, like a dog eyes closed, breathing in the wind
This dust
This breathing living wind with no sea salt
Pulling up the yellow grass smells
This is my freedom
Bringing no moisture, collecting only red soil
No comments:
Post a Comment