Stand at a high place and look.
Hair-rush winds lung freshen.
Wind, neither warm nor cold, they’d call a gale.
No bother weather that’d put the good folk off.
Stand in a jumper when they’d insist on a coat.
Wind: releasing tension’s grip;
ferreting out knickety burr-wrinkles;
soothing skackety skick-crinkles.
Breathe Height; ride groundswell.
See aeons stretch; reach out and grip the distance.
Hear emptiness resound: open up to space.
Gasp-release as back-lax ease dimensions drift-skew you soft.
Regard the world below, where the nuisance breeds,
folk create bother, useless huvver-buvver aggro-critters.
See the world of will-stealing households and arguments.
Of jobs of work. Of I wants and you-need-tos.
Demands to satisfy the hassle-creed.
Up in my high place that’s the far away.
Up in my high place I’m close by.
Up. In my place. Just me. Away.