Stagnant, the air,
breath barely moving from in front of my face
like a damp mask
    of depression,
& 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
& even the shadows
& 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.