It breathes ancient, this thing.
It stirs and it rings
and pours out of my skin.
There’s a tempest within.
I should hold down the lid
but can’t sail this ship
while lost drunk on longing.
The sails rip at the seams.
My lips holding the seeds I can’t sow
– for now.
Can the whispering wind let you know
your words waken in me
all the poetry
still left in my bones?
Isidora Works 