they call the wind 'friend'

The wind howls

through the empty spaces of my cells,

a calcium seeking chemical composition

hungry for bone. 

It leaves behind a bitter chill,

and I shake and chatter erratically

in a feeble attempt at warmth. 

Weak branches fall from their limbs,

cutting into my arms and feet,

and I close my eyes,

searching for the skills

to construct a haven from this madness,

this method of living. 

Soon I will be lost in the chaotic collapse

unless I create a path of my own making. 

My mind gets lost

in the pondering maze of indecision,

unable to recognize the sound of anything

but the roar of air pressing in,

whirling from every direction.

I shiver,

my gaze westward,

feet in opposing positions.

the inevitability of change

There is snow on the garden. 

Yesterday the leaves were dying

from wintry battle wounds, but

today they are frozen in mid-decay,

playing like a possum at being alive

(or is it dead?) 

There is promise in tomorrow. 

The snow will melt,

hydrating roots, soil,

birthing the green of possibility. 

The snow will freeze,

breaking apart fragile molecular existence

clinging to weak sunlit hope. 

For now, the only truth is this:

the roots could harden,

go dormant,

expecting the worst of all possible outcomes,

or they could open

to the beauty of blooming

under their own burgeoning light. 

The chemical reactions

that initiate such response

have already been initiated. 

Which way will the wind blow?