windburn cheeks

windburn cheeks

By Dylan Wilford

Emotional landscapes birth a newborn’s tantrum in the northern inlet.
With grasses that dance as wind strums in bands silently.
Rubber mice squeak beneath me, trudging along the rounded pebbles.
Above, brushstrokes freshly painted dry with hues of merengue and a jay’s feathers.

Salt grips our senses inside the doors of nature’s cathedral.
First my sight, smell, then coating chapped lips with the taste of cured pork
Slowly, it grinds away at coarse fingers like sandpaper, lingering.

Ceaseless gusts thread purple brush and flesh with a seamstress’ vigor,
And shades of brown cobwebs lacking spiders trap our heads at every turn.
Their howls blare, the rusted fence’s wire engraves my hand looking for safety.
The invisible snake hisses, throwing our knitted hats down the two-lane road.

We kneel and pray for smallness against the grand rocks and godly wind.
At last, the van’s exhale gave a new sanctuary for tired legs.
And I can still feel the memory of gusts as the days pass.