She'd not chase painful zephyrs, their destinations circling, they lied, hid their nowhere intentions, like her troubles running a track. Cross-legged in stillness, eyes fluttering towards closed, a reminder to not give chase, to instead let worries pass through. Let them wash over, not as a strong wind, but as a gentle breeze caressing, and after the lone air moving was her breath. ©January 2023 Christina Anne Hawthorne
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