The air is often softer here than there.
Here, lights expand like helium balloons,
each with its own fat cloud of silver air.

Here, the trees are unsure when to turn.
They ponder on it. There, they shrugged and left,
their spirits migratory. Unconcerned.

There, the water froze within your breath.
Here it rains down on you, softly still,
and still you wait and wait to become still.

One thought on “Withal”

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