What is the wind but another name for something untouchable?
I wake to dark, and more dark, in bleak winter.
Reaching out, your hand grazes mine like a fine gauze.
The streets are rain-soaked and brilliant in midday sun.
My coffee coaster is the height of hipster home irony.
The desk, piled with papers, seeks relief from its weight.
Still, we plod through the spring mud, ever-relentless.
You only keep what you can in this life, brief and messy.
Grey Sparrow Journal 