Descending, pleasing downward, slowly
Skin begins to ache, fingertips out of reach
Only to appear and desperate to soothe
Pushing out of instinct, the air holding fast
Holding against the sweeping currents
Riding with the four winds, calling out their names
Dancing in their circles, dizzy and endless
Emulating colors, pastel and gray
Flowing and mixing, creating a colorful friction
Heat rushing forward, a sweet gushing geyser
Cleansing the moving surface
The warmth subsides and spreads
So gentle are the soft breezes now
Cradling this release
-Copyright ©2000 K. Monge'