wandering the regions of my mind,
holding your shifting, fluttering skirt close to your legs,
and wading through a swamp of half-remembered dreams,
like colorful garments glinting through the brine.
Floating fragile on the top,
a red scarf skitters past your fingertips,
sinking below and glimmering gently underwater.
I watch as you abandon the swamp,
stepping instead to a mossy, springy bank
that pulses like a beating heart,
tender to the touch.
You stoop, uproot the stray seedlings
that wander rebelliously upward,
and toss them backward into the murk.
One tiny feeling, an inkling
blown in on the wind,
grows from the rocky patch hiding under a pile of moss,
and you smile, and leave it, resolute and alone.
You turn to the craggy trail above,
and hitch your skirt up to your knees before you travel out of view—
and my thoughts wander elsewhere.