I walked out in the middle of March
at 3 a m, and it was warm,
warmer than all three months past.
My lungs expanded as if
suddenly released from bondage
and allowed to run free.
This was wrong.
It was not normal.
It was an ill wind that surely must carry
a tempting pleasure
leading only to misfortune.
I wanted to remain there buoyed
by that south breeze, but returned to bed
with dreams of its caress.
The shape of the wind then shifted.
I awoke in a much harsher,
more chilling world.
I knew this was normal.
I resigned to the
fleeting nature of inspired awareness,
dangling beyond reach,
drawing me into endless pursuit.
