Indian Winter.


My heart beats in a circle, and I wait for the drum of grey in my chest cavity to hush and see.

This is how we live our days, charging everything into light sockets while the bread turns black and the window sky outside dampens into a cold husk.

I don’t want this to be about the winter or how my soul is all of me, how I just can’t catch it yet. This is how the blue hue, seeping from an outside sun, leaks.

Bodies were made to step along, like the sheerness of water and light. Where the air warms and nightbirds sing.

© Lauren Bernhagen 2012
Photo by: Kike Besada