What happens when the wind dancer finds neither the wind which moves her effortlessly nor the desire to put the next foot forward and walk the forest rows long(ing)?
The soul extinguished, whence powered by the movement of air, lay to rest this past, emotionally-taxing Winter. They say the only thing guaranteed in life is death and taxing—what they don't say is who dies and that all is taxed.
A Spring burial finally permits the breaking of ground. Even the metal claws of men advised against it during that time of perpetual darkness. The ground now flooded with water pays a several billion year homage to the original cellular orgy as life begins anew. The seeds strewn vindicate our solar absence.
We hold séance to summon back the subtle winds which, in lockstep, awaken our sleeping phoenix prima ballerina. Akin to uprising from rooted incubation, the perpetual balancing act of temperature and pressure re-kindle the firestarting winds of warmth.
