did we think the birds would not sing this ending too, that the morning sky would no longer disrupt the waiting dark, pull mountain and horizon from the deep red start. did we think we would not feel this change wind blow. this too will fall away. we are children of this earth and sky,…
i have spread fragrant petals on my desk to dry, there is strong medicine in the delicate pink of the rose that lived full bloom to the storm.
the river flows salt with this harvest moon, pushing the sandbank heavy with night rain, tasting krill stories and ice dust on the tide. remembering herself as ocean, as cloud, as rain.
we watched it fall the sky fractured on fault lines and spilling light of creation and smiting gods – every leaf, membrane and synapse alive to the storm, thunder resonant in our chests.
even then, full of the noise of swimmers and a flotilla of inflatables, the goose flew close to her reflection – the white on her wings bright in that dark water. and for a moment all was quiet but the sound of her flight breathing the day. …
puff adder calls an end to summer beautiful in her new skin scales hoping to find a winter home in the hollow roots of old elder.
it was the silver fish that came – an unseen shadow in that dark water, until it turned and caught the light.
let the day fade and seep its wild orange between the trees. let the darkening sky stretch with bat addled flight until even their flickering silhouettes shadow between the stars. and when night falls, as fall it must, i shall wear it soft as mothwing around my shoulders. there can be no fear, this path…
would it matter if the old gods no longer owned the sky, or if the gods had new names with photos in the paper and childhoods somewhere tame. would it matter if the infinite light of stars became transient – constellations linear, mobile. would it matter if between the heavens and hell was just…
well of course i want sun on skin in the morning while the sky shifts to autumn blue and days still sing of summer