Question

Scoured in the throat

of a sandstorm 

poems sprout wings

without words, yet implore

this tribe of clouds

these cotton soldiers 

lost in dreams of forgetting

where are the healers

and rowdy prophets,

those rambling ranks

of upwelling birds?

 

Summer

Marooned no more,

you step into surf where wind washes

fresh skin, Seabirds and Clouds

shout all of your names

as toes sculpt

their lush futures

squishing,

sinking further

into thick

singing sand.