You seed yourself like grasses in a field but also between the ochre stones of an ancient street. You bring on darkness and sunrise.
Below ground, Baby, you slept for 17 years under the knotted tunnels of beetles, under formicaries of ants– your childhood labyrinths. A maple root’s
The world is your wasp’s nest. This delicate warning, this glossy thorax that pulses with threat. How you grasp what will hurt you,
“I have found the paradox that if I love until it hurts, then there is no more hurt, only more love.” —Mother Theresa Help