A Waking Wind

Awakened from a strange and beautiful dream. By wind.

Pale woman. Red hair. Knew all of my moves. She had been abroad, but was gracing me with her warm presence. I'm pretty sure that she understands the impact of minor chords.

Blowing wind suddenly silent. No rain. There are clouds, though. 3-D clouds. I guess clouds prefer to present themselves in 3-D.

"Old man," he said to his master, "that was a narrow escape! The dogs would have made short work of you, and blame would have fallen on me. As though the gods hadn't done enough already to pester and torment me!"

The past is past, then why does it rear it's beautiful and ugly head again and again?

In the firelight, I brush her hair. It is difficult to determine which is most red. Her hair, or the fire.

What is that noise? The fire, or the wind under the door?

Her hair, spread out like flames, drew me in. I was lost. I wanted to be lost.

I sometimes wonder if my wings will fail me. Will I no longer be able to fly? Or are my wings only good for beating the fire. Red-haired woman, in a white gown. Did I forget to mention the white gown? I am forgotten. And as forgotten, so I would forget.

Woman of silence.
Woman sitting still.
Why can't she sit still?

She tries, but she cannot sit still.

She hovers above me with the knowingest of eyes.

"Put more wood on the fire. I'm not finished yet."

The wind compels me. It drives me. I become driven.

When wrestling with a pale redhead in darkness, and in the daytime, the right time and the right place ain't here.

And I have known her arms. Arms white, pale, and bare. In the slender light of morning, they frighten me. Her smell. Her barely covered breasts. On my pillow. I need a plan. With caressing hands, she pretends to wake me.

She continues to give.

Still the wind moves about my shaky bones. Still, the wind.

I part the curtains, and inhale the darkness.