Written by: Amy Green

Winter's crisp yet early breath whispered to me this eve
A yearly session as we, the cold and me, gather
Conferring when, when can I join her, join her as she 
gallops wild and free-

Life has been cocooned, reigned tight and sensory 
all I cry for is the wild. The wild and the wind, as I was 
meant to follow-
Espousing her movements is where I was meant to be.

How could you know?
Wrapped in a thick, sticky web of dubiety, never has she, 
the wind,
seen me free. Dreams of conifers and dancing emerald 
aurora always
calling to me, always calling and pulling me. 

Yet, in this populated, polluted cocoon I remain as a 
not as a thing wild. A thing to lick raindrops off grass and 
go where the day seizes me, never to wander among the 
honeysuckle and bees, listening... just listening...

Concrete, lights, noise, horns, words, highways, bi-ways, 
runaways, flyaways
Speak easies, slippery tongues, silty breaths, monitors, 
breaks, jump ropes,
shoes, bonds, bonds- chains. Always chained. 

Bosses, fights, liars, diers, criers, things always moving, 
changing, squirming, vibrating, stinking, pissing, kissing, 

Disease and lies- untruth to ones own self. 
Utter self deception- the worst sin of all.
The cold wind fingers my hair, touching intimately
the parts she wishes to follow her-

the cocoon wraps even tighter, pushing her away, 
completely away.
But I can still smell her and know she wants me.
She knows I want her, she knows I love her, 

she knows I will die before ever truly knowing her.