I. <br />the day began as a mirage. <br />dressed in the garb of a wise king, <br />i dab frankincense on my wrists <br />and stumble into the desert searching for stories in the sand. <br />i find no surrealism in the sun. illusion <br />cannot be blamed on transitory light. it is my eyes <br />which censor the spectrum of time. <br />with a dangerous emptiness, the wind <br />bellows and encompasses the earth. sagging dunes <br />translate moments. they know time well. <br /> <br />II. <br />tonight the warehouse is drafty and dark. <br />we separate manna into brown boxes, <br />recycle miracles, and pack moon pies along with <br />fruit and sins of the Torah. <br />while sweeping up our mess, i wonder <br />if the wind celebrates itself <br />or if the sky and the oceans <br />honor it and how. <br /> <br />III. <br />‘tell me i am like the sand. tell me <br />i am a ruptured star - the grit <br />of an ancient supernova, <br />crumbled <br />& <br />still <br />shimmering. <br />tell me when i settle <br />the wind will swipe me up and <br />scatter me <br />again.’ <br /> <br />IV. <br />she said: I am a story. I am true <br />beyond the sun.<br /><br />Indigo Hawkins<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/i-will-be-a-story/
