I am the clouds – spanning
Over your golden wheat field –
When the rain falls heavily on you.
But then, like ivy,
He clings to these four walls of the barn,
In which you've had me entombed;
Conceals the many splinters waiting to repeat –
And you shout – infuriated,
So he wilts, and then
Blooms, and we
Escape – the Polaris our guide.
So, create your ruts and assemble
Your scarecrows – or better yet,
You stand tall,
Dirty hands outstretched, below the circling crows –
Because I have wafted away.