What comes next?
A question that is the first to drop away. The questioning drowned out by the wind.
The Earth sparks and trembles, eruption.
I am the desert, the water has stopped but the wind still blows.
The word mother is delivered and the shaking stops and the fire is extinguished.
The season must be winter, I have forgotten the names of the other.
The winds still blow and I see it as a circle.
It flows as water once had, smooth and grey.
The inhale, the exhale.
All else is frozen, desert, stone, ash.
Now it is dark and I don’t recognize what was before.
The dark too is lost, is it light?
The wind still blows, it is a circle, inhale, exhale.
Written by Allen Myers