how very feathered

how very feathered are the gesture weeds.
they plush low sky.
we north them when we walk dayside.
we join our limbs with breath, rehearse forgetting as art.
a fevered pacem.

longing keeps.
we hold the moment without will.
and soon the stretch of days equals a life to talk about.
lone man still forging methods, following his way.
a soft parade of motions that don't flex.

afternoon connotes a mild time that extends.
maybe with sufficient gold a thread becomes discretionary
as the powder wings of moths
and nascent fluttering.
a likely joy that weighs that much.