\ a poem i started then stopped just as quick

the thrill of the unexpected breeze, is found in memories of pain that now choose to sing, and disappointment in the well-planned storm, rises too quickly, like awkward hands against your back. faith has always been a poor substitute for wonder, and looking up into a sky at the end of a day, i would rather ask, 'Isn't it?,' than answer, 'It is.'

or spend a day with someone who loves the land in ways you have yet to imagine. you see it as vast and unwielding, and she spreads her arms as far they will reach, 'We must protect it.' you say, 'It was here in the beginning, and will be after we've gone.' she says, 'It is fleeting, and fragile. Isn't it?,' and you would eventually agree, 'It is.'