These days I spend my time looking for your confessions, written on water or wind
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If I walk the seas, or stand through the storm, maybe it will come to me then.
If in the taste of ocean spray, the feel of wind whipping through a sheer cotton skirt,
In the reflection from a looking pool, the shadow from a sycamore,
Or the shape of a snowflake there is an answer
Or, lacking the answer, just the form of the question
Then I will pack up four seasons worth of clothing
Heavy knit heather sweaters,
Strappy leather flip flops,
Mittens, a cardigan,
A toe ring
Stuff them tight into my suitcase with wheels that squeak, squeak, squeak
With each slow step I take, and even without a kiss for memory
Or a sweet word of parting, I wonít send you a postcard
No sunset landscape, no wish you were here,
I will leave you, be lonely
Walk miles to places we
Have never been
Listen to the wind
Watch the water
Is this where
Has gone to?
Iíll leave you
Iíll find us.
She falls softly down from towering pedastools...