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Stagnant, the air, breath barely moving from in front of my face like a damp mask of depression, oppression, stagnation-- & nothing has changed for as long as I can remember, & the ruts are so deep I have to stretch to see out, & my hair hangs limp & the sea feels oily & it feels like there's a fat man sitting on my chest-- & suddenly there's a whisper-- & a leaf scuttles, crabwise, down the street, & the stagnation is like holding my breath, & I know it's all about to let go. & She picks up Her broom, & gives the world a good sweeping, because It's Time. She tsks over what's been building up, & scoots the dust bunnies out, & even the shadows scurry, & She starts a flurry of change. & The Changewinds Blow. Without moving, without thinking or putting a name on it, I feel Something is coming-- a change is on the Wind. Whirling, whirling, my hair wrapped around my face like a veil, static crackling, & my footprints are gone before I lift my feet, & a strange music pushes at my back, caresses my face, & before I even realize I've stepped outdoors I'm in flight, soaring, soaring, & my life will never be 2-dimensional again. When the Time comes She puts away her broom, straws up, & settles in for another season, & I have time to build a new rut before She returns to Sweep me into a new dimension next year. |