emerge
in the morning, i emerge from a pile of warm bodies. all day, my hands massage things into being. my hands are dusty and strong; the clay is cold and white and heavy. i tear chunks from the side of a small mountain, and slowly work them until they become springy and malleable. from the side of the mountain, a cloud emerges. from the edge of the cloud, a portal emerges. along the brink of the portal, an anxious dream emerges. the wind whips. thunder breaks into the night. spring attempts to transpire, to become known. i am making the things i wish i could be, that i do not have, that i long for. is there ever thunder for snow? when words fail, will you learn to read the semaphore of my objects?
