Transient
I am light as a milkweed pod,
my throat is lined with silk parachutes.
I go where the wind takes me,
clinging to anything tangible.
These images will someday weight me down,
giving me reason, giving me place.
Stillness will become an occupation.
my throat is lined with silk parachutes.
I go where the wind takes me,
clinging to anything tangible.
These images will someday weight me down,
giving me reason, giving me place.
Stillness will become an occupation.
