A great heavy fog hangs like wet laundry over Ithaca.
I’m a sorry, useless figure as I wait for my sight to come back,
It never left, but until he gets here I might as well be blind.
I stand at the border, as far as I can go before the ground begins to slope downward,
And the fertile, well-kept grass transitions to a thick, muddy moss that invokes a panic,
Similar to what one would feel if trying to escape quicksand.
I lean back while the wind pushes me forward,
We establish an equilibrium,
We understand each other, the wind and I.
No body, no weight to distract me,
I think on what I expect to emerge from the fog.
I imagine he’d be dressed in blue.
Cotton bottom up, rolled at the sleeves,
Dark blue jeans, the ones he’s worn in.
His hair would be disheveled from the wind,
Which is blowing so hard he can barely stand his ground.
The wind knows, it pushes him closer to me.
I imagine he’d be squinting,
A useless attempt to see through the fog, to where I’m standing.
Open and terrified,
Alarmingly giddy,
Stupidly charmed by his presence alone.
I’d stand there until the fog had lifted,
A pillar through the change of seasons.
I’d watch him use the transition from winter to spring as an excuse to incite change,
Walwitch and Ithaca as one,
Then I’d watch him insist this change came from within, a calling of some sort.
But I know the only change he’d experienced is inevitable change,
The kind of change it’s impossible not to experience.
Change that is biological and chemical,
Not change that he had sought out.
Then I’d watch him complicitly lose interest.
I’m the same way, that’s why we’d go together so nicely.
And I’d still call to him blindly, uncaring of whether or not they can hear me,
I’d tell him to carry me over.
I don’t know if he’d do it.
I’d ask him to summon his birth-given powers to manipulate the wind that so often manipulates me,
It’d cradle me across the body of water that separates us,
Calm in physicality and yet tempestuous in symbol.
And just as I’m about to reach the other side, all I see is black.
Back to where I started.
I don’t know him,
I don’t know if he's coming.
I only know where he’d be coming from, where he would take me.
Waldwitch is an enigma;
He will never know me and I’ll be standing here until both worlds collapse.
I’m a sorry, useless figure as I wait for my sight to come back,
It never left, but until he gets here I might as well be blind.
I stand at the border, as far as I can go before the ground begins to slope downward,
And the fertile, well-kept grass transitions to a thick, muddy moss that invokes a panic,
Similar to what one would feel if trying to escape quicksand.
I lean back while the wind pushes me forward,
We establish an equilibrium,
We understand each other, the wind and I.
No body, no weight to distract me,
I think on what I expect to emerge from the fog.
I imagine he’d be dressed in blue.
Cotton bottom up, rolled at the sleeves,
Dark blue jeans, the ones he’s worn in.
His hair would be disheveled from the wind,
Which is blowing so hard he can barely stand his ground.
The wind knows, it pushes him closer to me.
I imagine he’d be squinting,
A useless attempt to see through the fog, to where I’m standing.
Open and terrified,
Alarmingly giddy,
Stupidly charmed by his presence alone.
I’d stand there until the fog had lifted,
A pillar through the change of seasons.
I’d watch him use the transition from winter to spring as an excuse to incite change,
Walwitch and Ithaca as one,
Then I’d watch him insist this change came from within, a calling of some sort.
But I know the only change he’d experienced is inevitable change,
The kind of change it’s impossible not to experience.
Change that is biological and chemical,
Not change that he had sought out.
Then I’d watch him complicitly lose interest.
I’m the same way, that’s why we’d go together so nicely.
And I’d still call to him blindly, uncaring of whether or not they can hear me,
I’d tell him to carry me over.
I don’t know if he’d do it.
I’d ask him to summon his birth-given powers to manipulate the wind that so often manipulates me,
It’d cradle me across the body of water that separates us,
Calm in physicality and yet tempestuous in symbol.
And just as I’m about to reach the other side, all I see is black.
Back to where I started.
I don’t know him,
I don’t know if he's coming.
I only know where he’d be coming from, where he would take me.
Waldwitch is an enigma;
He will never know me and I’ll be standing here until both worlds collapse.