The trees are swaying in the mischievous wind.

Her tickling fingers 

brush through the brush

and weave through the grass.

I can hear, dully, 

the barely contained laughter of the breeze

as she flits through my backyard.

 

The windowpane I lean against is cold,

kissing my skin,

and leaving goosebumps in its wake.

I watch the playful raindrops,

smiling as they race to beat their brothers to the bottom.

I can almost feel them on my skin,

taste them on my tongue:

their purity,

their freedom.

 

The fog of my breath

spreads, slowly, on the window.

The warmth is sapping from my cheek

and my scalp.

My hair is cold to the touch,

but my hands are warm,

and my chest is warm,

and my hips are warm.

I am very warm.

I feel I am supposed to be cold,

but instead,

I hide behind a thin layer of glass,

some thin barrier,

which protects me.

 

The soft sounds of a strumming guitar,

of a real voice,

of timeless words,

play in the back of my mind,

somewhere far behind my eyes,

behind my cold hair,

behind my thoughts.

I hear them.

I let them seep into my belly

like a teabag left too long in a mug.

They swirl around,

flowing into my bloodstream,

swimming their way to my conscious mind.

 

On my tongue lie restless words,

longing to burst through my mouth,

through my quick fingers.

My chest feels full--

in it, a bizarre mixture

of nostalgia,

safety,

fear,

introspection;

as if it were a concoction made by a child;

one of mud and leaves and pebbles,

stirred by a stick and imagination.

 

I am nine,

standing in the doorway of my garage,

the last threshold of warm safety

before I can feel the rain on my skin.

I am dressed for church.

The sounds of my parents in the kitchen fade,

their beings no longer yards, but miles away,

and I wonder,

briefly,

if I would ever feel the same way as I did in that moment,

if I would ever feel the spell that was cast on me.

I knew I couldn't capture it then,

and it frustrated me.

 

I can capture it now--

perhaps not fully,

but at least enough to hold it,

tangible,

against my skin.

I couldn't keep it forever;

I wouldn't want to.

 

I let it pass through me,

leaving its words behind,

or at least, the words it wants me to keep.

It leaves with a wink,

and I let it go,

waiting for the next time it comes for a visit.

 

I'll be waiting.