I remember those seeds that used to spin as they fell
catching them in my open palm
and throwing them up again, enchanted by kinetics.
I would liken myself to those seeds, hold out my arms
and spin until the world came to match
the rush of input driving through my synapses.
Because rarely did those sounds, those scents
those constantly moving bodies jostling, jeering,
crashing against me
make sense until my speed matched them.
And if I fell, it didn’t matter.
The ground was always there to catch me,
soft grass cupping my cheek.
Treeshallow Musings 