CREATION, BY BELINDA SUBRAMAN

Outside in a midnight wind storm
I lie down seeking words.
The hot wind blows 
through my robe.
Wind fingers expose me.
Another world symphony
of tuned chimes
sing over items 
skipping down the street
reason enough to be still 
and succumb
to outer dimensions.
I lean in for a message
and fall.
In the morning I have
a memory of touching
the tip of a tail
of an imaginary tiger
streaking across the desert
chasing rain
and stars
and words in the wind.