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A Dusting ... A Dancing

A Dusting ... A Dancing

It falls as white dust and delineates

The nature of the

Wind. I usually

Guess at it, by the


Way it buffets and skirts my rigid shell.

A dusting reveals

The white flowing

Folds of the dress of


The dancer that is the wind. As she spins,

Her skirts tickle my

Calves. As she leaps just

Over me, legs stretch


Out, fluttering in my face. She sashays

To a seductive

Beat and I feel drawn 

Near. She limbos down


To the black top and then breaks across it…

Till she is swirling,

Gliding wisps that pile

Into white puddles.



Wired Found Poem

Wired Found Poem