A Question of Questing

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?

.

where stillness

soaks clear

waters

a lone

hummingbird

sits

 

may I..

skywards fall

into this lap

of clouds,

may I?

 May the words you

utter and write

ring true

through the fog

in the bones

of your life