This burning heat is a thirsting pain of unmovable wisdom and a dark dawn that sours glass against the cold of Winter. The hypnotizing zephyr of juvenescence is nothing without the kiss of the relentless desert grit.
To differentiate between indices and the nuclear breeze is like sailing through a broken oxbow while remembering that dances aren’t dreams and footprints aren’t seen once the ocean washes them away. Oh, how can we afford to invest in the forgotten traveler who searches for the resolution to the chorus of crying gulls and the promise of unsalted waters? And how can a poet know what to save when nothing means anything at all or everything means something to someone but not everyone? But still, we continue to conjugate time with gifts of flowers, feathers, and bones in the hopes that we will not have to walk through fires to get back home. When the seed surfaces, maybe we will see where the door goes. Or maybe we can move through the lens of a language that sounds like a million sweet lullabies. Or maybe a cease-fire will mean something. 

 

©️Winter Dawn Burns