maelynslavik

Smoke curls into the air,

Twirling,

One thread dipping another,

A slow waltz

With some quick steps to spark

The band,

A careful orchestra

I think our world knows

How easily we’re overwhelmed,

How quickly tiny scrapes

Can become full-blown scars,

How we need seven good comments

Fall often 

Stains our world brown, 

Leaves the color 

Of an old ruddy gold, 

Their tips dry, 

Crinkling with the cold 

I stare up,

Up at the sky,

At the vast open blue,

The only limit

My perspective,

With lenses ready

To sail me into the dark,

Slender limbs fan out,

Parallel to the sky

Instead of reaching,

Wanting to be the open blue,

Accepting that

Though the tree will never

I’m sitting beneath a tree, 

Tangled 

In the roots, 

My fingers gripping those 

Of each soil-soaked tendril