[Untitled]

dark rooms made from nothing but air
and still here I am anyway

tumbling towards dainty white flowers
the buzzing of bees singing faintly nearby
the steps taken easily by memory alone

a song made with love
offspring of willow tree and wind
it sways from one side to the other
it whispers to me of sweet good-mornings

stones both heavy and smooth
from my hands splash and thump
from the surface drift down and slow

surely I had been blind before
how could these visions elude me?

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