0 Colorado Sky

On her left cheek
Five freckles form the constellation of a kite
I have tried to fly on lonely days.

But she is not the kind to be tied down
To any of my lines or wrapped around
Any of my fingers.

She is an Aquarius.
And while I don't believe in astrology,
I believe she is air.
She is Colorado sky.
And whatever the weatherman told you about her --
She is already changing.

This used to scare me
Until I learned she is always returning,
Like a sea breeze surfing on the ocean tide,
Or the prayers of a people who forgot where they came from,
Rising like steam back to God.

Forget steam engine.
Locomotive.
She is the howling wind of the Santa Ana canyon,
Setting fire to the dry brush of apathy.
At times, a Kansas tornado
Transforming black and white visions
With the vibrancy of poppies and emeralds and yellow brick roads --

There is no place like home.

And there is nothing like her snow
That I catch on my tongue, and build
Into forts that are already melting me
Into more vulnerable.

And whatever the Eskimos call her
Can't be bottle in painted globes
Shaken at my whim when I am begging
For Christmas in July, because then
She is firecracker painted sky,
Falling on my head,
Waking anthems inside.

She is zephyr, sunshine, soundwave,
And for whatever fequency she can't detect in her left inner ear,
She resonantes new symphonies I can hear in her heartbeat
When our bodies form cradles
Rocking our fears to sleep
And waking our dreams into the marrow
Of our aching bones.

I know that she only wants to be known
And seen for what she is,
And what she is is always moving:
Cool air seeking spaces to fill.
And in the fall
In the pressure of my thorax,
She will always meet me when my lungs make room for her coming.

Hello inhaled.
Exhaled, goodbye.
But look! I am still breathing,
And she is still
Mine.

--Taylor H., 28