How can we be experiencing catastrophes, hurricanes that come in many guises, rumbling,whipping up and electrifying airwith hatreds as old as humans, but not quiteas old as rain. When the late afternoon sun skips through your hair whorlingit from its usual acorn into golden copper nests?
Spun sugar curls glinting, see-through. Unclear which is light, or hair. Static dendriticfilaments zip-lining into air. Are you there? More than real. Figment of whim I want to live between the fragments of already fallen leavesfloating lazy, like dust moteswhere you are both sunbeamand my child, full of spit and kick.
Fluttering in and out of self constructed worlds you chitter about from the level of my hip. Spinning in drafts of strange weather systems at our nearby edge only ceasingwhen your twig limbs sink heavy in my arms sodeeply drunk with the day only sleep can containall the questions, definitions, declarations: “I ama honeybee, a hummingbird, a duckling. A fairyqueen. A frog”.
Emma Sky Wolf has had poetry and illustrations appear in publications such as Orion, Gargoyle, Verse Daily, Leaf Garden, Poetic Hours, Dark Lady Poetry, and others. She works as a psychotherapist in private practice in Arlington, VA. Throughout solo parenting in these tumultuous years, she continues to find beauty in the eye of the storm.