Spirals as Roots

Lock mechanism clicks, a crouched
figure, a blockade of trees, a cascade
of fallen leaves, surface interactions
aerated in abstractions of movement,
a stick picked
to engage
in artistic play.

Wild winds howling.

Someone will die this season.
And it just might
Be-Me.
Every transition a mission

Fingers warm
against
an ensuing-storm

Angles arranged a depth of adepts