Western winter wind

Blowing from far reached places where people see the reflection of snow capped mountains and each others faces

My hand are growing old trying to catch up to my soul, split palms running down to abrasive callused finger tips, in an attempt to make it through i rub them together like a gene lamp and pray for better weather. It will get better.

I bat my eyes and tap my toes against the cracks in cement on a drunk walk home from where i do not know. I make it a point to make note of all the shadows on the road and where they go. Like me their headed "home" or back out to the road.

Then springs sets upon me and the melting swells the streams and friends and I ride our bikes wasted out the levee to watch logs and limbs get smashed upon the walls and rocks in a perfect pitched symphony of bliss. Waited all winter and this is it.

The grass becomes green and everything smells like life including me. And im walking and screaming and singing, its all i can do to keep myself breathing. These moments arent fleeting. I wrap them in my bones and remember them forever.

The leaves churn and burst in this page of the calender, summer sets in and its feeling like home again. The grows with my soul and i run my fingers through the vines of things that will harvest in time. We drive all night to atlantic coast beaches.

Running screaming into the ocean and get lost in the motions. Leaving noted bottles in the sand saying "we'll be back here next year...if we can" We chase the sunrise down lonesome highways and get lost along back roads searching for answers or maybe just a good time.

We run screaming into the nights chasing seasons and sit starring at photos when we leave them. We do it for a reason. We loose touch but the water in veins still reminds we are part of the calender and we never be without it.