You seed yourself like grasses in a field but also between the ochre stones of an ancient street. You bring on darkness and sunrise.
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
although the nation is done for, /I find new flowers. Donald Revell i. my husband tells me fireflies are dying out on the hill.