epilogue.

time to come back around,

trace the stream of thread to the center of the spool and,

maybe touch the water to remember rain comes. rain will come.

it makes things bloom.

I still hold a hope to be held.

there is no deluge, no flood.

the storm, and all its mighty hail, has traveled across the continent,

thinning ,as it runs, into a single stream of weather.

something more like a raindrop meandering down the windowpane;

fatigued by all the fuss.

it is a strange land I wander.

a heart, unfolded and multi-petaled ,serenades the stepping

and this body dreams into the horizons of possibilities.

still, in a small locket, this waiting waits.

to be caught from the freefall; softened.

to live the landing like a feather sawing down, slowly.

to fully undress and still know the certainty of love.