Fine moss, juicy ferns

Fresh wood, dew coats each green

Thing, each living thing with moisture

Nostrils hold this earth like worlds stuck

Onto its follicles, hexagonal, but round

In another season, this same fertile, juicy,

The harmony of, the wholeness of

Earth, has become yellow, sharp, brittle

Something lost or stripped away, a bad season

A sudden single curious flame, carried over from

A past fire, this

not able to hold moisture in, it doesn’t stick, but what does-

The brilliant glow of desperation and

vulnerable spaces for love and acceptance

Seen above it all like the 405 freeway

Diverting paths, the heat is felt even inside the shell.


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