Lineae (or Paper Patterns, pt ii)

Circadian circumference rhythms from the earth's core
flow from the center of my outstretched palms
towards blood/red-moon/shine
Down on my skin, fading to transparency
As you, thousand-for-everything Southern child,
convey a similarity
a parallel, which
I must find in wildernesses, pomegranates
to smash in my hands (probably four years later)
and therefore redeem a powerful phrase I uttered then,
when I (now) realize, my previous orbits were unaligned.

I will forever call you Aeolian,
Your laughing breath stained through seven exhalations.
Midnight silence still burns on my eyelids,
but this quietness is ever-cleansing and ever-revealing.

I'll ask you three questions, then:
Are your origins atmospheric?
Will you allow my wind to carve your name?
What colors are bursting from your hands?

Just please don't say red.