I clad myself in rain
donning the color
of the morning sky.

My cheeks unfolding
in the spiral movement
of the rose.
My breath whispering
like the rocking of the tide.

Sometimes I sing in the stillness,
sometimes my voice is clear
like spring water,
or the gurgling of an infant.

Sometimes I stand inside a cave:
In front of the door
there is a stone.
No one can enter or exit.

But this morning
dewdrops form
on the silhouette
of my body
in the newfound light.

I wear a wide hat
shaped like a cloud,
and in silent requiem,
I compose an ode
to the seagulls
floating effortlessly on gusts
of wind–swooping,
screeching,
a call as wild as life.

A pattern so arcane
and mysterious
it trembles in my throat.