Blow-Breeze

As she walked into the room
Feet gliding over wood
I can feel the coolness of the boards
I scent the whiff of stale air
Windows unopened for long periods
As her skirt brushes by the bookcase
I feel the breeze of it on my skin
And then the cozy roughness of rug
While kneeling on fuzzy carpet ensconcing a small table
Words rush out of her mind
Splashing page after page
I feel the ink smear onto my palm, sticky
Another blow-breeze flutters my hair
As she places her writing-book to the side
And then as her thoughts continue
Circular about the room, roving with her eyes
I can see them, too
Curling cursives in the air
As she seeks the next formulation of emotion
And that blow-breeze of emotion
Flows right through me
And the air becomes still again as the windows close
And the thoughts stop
And the writing ends
The heat of creation departs
And once again, the wood floor is cool,
The cardboard smell of emptiness returns
The rooms is closed
And my mind moves on to its next task
Though it feels stale and darkened in this room.