I walk down the street,
my hair half
damp from the shower
because I’m late
as usual
and didn’t have time
to dry it properly. I feel
the wind drying it for me, the air
touching me all over, tiny
loving caresses, remember
the sky earlier when the clouds
seemed to sway and dance lightly
in place for my amusement,
and wonder at how
nature loves me so
and is not afraid
to touch me,
finds nothing wrong
with me
or heart
and why it is that you
can’t just be
more natural.

Published by

R. Brookes McKenzie

what fresh hell is this

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