All I want to do is merely erupt in so many ways as you’re thinking,
I need more of me to go around to surround her singularly.

No matter how hard I try I cannot conceive nor convey her essence in this space.

She was asked once if she always flew
down or preferred instead to land, to which she replied:
It’s merely the flying, what more could I want,
what more would one wish for?

I’ve broken my mind and my wings, so many times
wondering if she’d rather be elsewhere.

Her ankle and calf traces the cumulus cloudy nimbus that rains on me,
then it pours on us, ending as a cold-blue drizzle.

© Chagall 2015