Mapping the wind

Soldiers of a distant land march ashore as the wind turns her head
Wings beat against their approach; tears fall as the ice melts and flows away.
Gulls cry on your behalf as the sea breathes with you even in your darkest hour
Fire and ice balance your days as you turn your attention to mapping the wind
In seven days your blood has turned to tea
You realize the world looks better when viewed from just below the surface
So you plunge your hands into the clear blue cold
thinking you can only understand her if you know her core
shiver while your face burns
You warm yourself in the wisdom of a fox
that shared her sun through a whisper in your ear, but only after you turn your eyes away and let her push hot fangs and cold nose into the softness of your cheek
knowing then that you would climb the night to carry her home.
Seaweeds dance tipped in a crystalline gaze
Swaying to a Bossa nova that you learn to compose in seconds between the tides.
The west wind is lifting gulls above iron-clad stone
as you press rosebud lips upon an iceberg
hoping they will stick, taking you with them into the night.