transcribing the myth

will I make it in time?  She's decaying more and more every minute. In between dishes, diapers, "MOM!", laundry, homework, cooking, the wind.  The wind that began it all, the wind that is everpresent especially when the light is perfect and I might have two minutes, the wind that pushes her out the the frame a bit each time."MOM!" and in between sorting it out in my head, is there a pause? There is that wind

 

the wind that wrapped her in her own nest. The nest she was fixing, tending to, the wind spun her and it was stronger than her.