Of Air

At first daybreak,

before earth birthed atmosphere

there was no sound,

only silence,

then we of mangled word

and worms tread the earth,

and you—hush all the commotion,

obscuring speech—moving,

with no direction,

cascading the sky with light

brushing kisses that carry but cannot hold.

You dance the leaves and skeletal remains,

pushing oceans

like swings

you wish to move

and always find a way

around

or through any obstacle.

Sculpting,

with light hands.