Unlimited, let
spiral breath entangle me,
let my essence fly
in levitation, away,
fiercely overflowing with
the fullness of you.

For who, what, are we?
a sum or a mixture? Are
wings born of creatures
dancing? Or patched from parts of
stories left hanging in the
fragments of the wind?

Come ride on the wind
of turning.    The current is
opening toward the
threshold of desire.   The wind
hears our confession. Air:   so
foolish, hungry, wild.

end phrases taken from “Wild is the Wind” by Ned Washington and Dimitri Tiomkin
art and poem appeared online on the blog “The Song Is…”