Four Winds

Dipping
Your quill into the ink bottle,
You write me to an ocean of
white-washed bones.
As the ink flows through the quill,
I open my mouth,
speaking the words forming on the page, my breath
exiled
from hope in my lungs.

I inhale
as the bones rattle
joint – to – joint
into an organic outline of characters,
poised for entry into their story arc,

eyes widen as the tendonal transitions
connect
the skeletal framework of Your prophetic narrative.

Osmotic shock
of my emotion warms their skins,
bodies awakening as blood
rushes
through arteries,
flush with stoic sentimentality.

Form figures
stand
before us. Again we collaborate, Your four winds bring breath from the
        north, south, east and west
skies converging to create Your final poem draft
of fireworks
to the four corners of the earth.

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