Of Air

by Kyrin Sturdivant

At the first daybreak, before earth birthed atmosphere there was no sound,  only silence,

then we of mangled word and worms tread the earth,  and you—hush all the commotion,

obscuring speech—moving  with no direction,  cascading the sky with light

brushing kisses that carry but cannot hold. 

You dance the leaves and skeletal remains, 

pushing oceans

like swings 

you wish to move 

and always find a way 

around 

or through any obstacle. 

Sculpting,

with light hands.

© Kyrin Sturdivant 2022, All Rights Reserved.

— Published in Fulcrum Journal, 2023 —