The wind is in all four facets of bloom,

Flow and weave, cold cheek

With a warm temple.

These lines are inlets,

Coves eroding caves.

A cicada emits electricity,

Thrumming crackle.

A gust of reckless traffic.

My frame of reference is inverted.

I walk where I’d rather ramble.

A sense of life and lovely loss,

Rotten rind and apple blossom.