Babbling zephyrs, the undercurrent of wonderings,

A deep breath forms in capitals,

Rippling the landscape of the mind.

Shapes of thoughts meander resiliently,

Bouncing in their transparency.

I stand on the shores, unsure and wavering;

Looking down,

sandy feet.

My shadow drizzles itself pale.

Reaching for a cloud,

I catch my breath and secure again the whispering.

The millstone ashens to a feather in my palm.

Wearily, humby, freely, quietly, finally:

I blow it off.

                               Angie Kittrell Locke,  Greeley, Colorado, April 4, 1985Image