A leading word from you,
a call from your clouds,
would flood me,
dry in the valleys
without you.
Eating smiles,
You leave your central home without thought.
You do not need shoes.
The world is bearing your hardships,
with broken kingdoms flapping in the wind.
Your heart considers me,
My high gloss weeping and homey pleading,
And donates your medicinal attention
elsewhere.
The clinging skin of hunting dogs
As they trespass on the neighborhood
hungry.
Keep me humble.
Food is an escape artist,
so I have built a gold vault
To secure it while I doze recklessly.
Not everyone has the materials
to do this.
It took me years.
Not everyone has the time.
Some homes shrink to caskets.
Some nations sink to graves.
The faces of the unfortunate
become corn seed.
Red river conveying women’s hearts
in baskets.
Through windy reeds, a foreign song.
Will the king open up the window sash
to let the lonely wail of bereft
motherhood curl up at his fire
like an unloved cat?
Sitting on the riverbank,
the queen of carnage
sees one glitter.
Wades in.
My private demon is winning
My wine hazy spirit.
The sunset cools
on a small snowfall.
The shining light,
it’s always washed in bleach.
Endless beach,
tears.
Sometimes we cry for our own sake,
cold,
and there are no boxes to contain
our needy mouths.
We all have been an empty harvest.
We have not been sown.
It’s easy,
to breathe tears into the body,
eyes to see.
In the fireplace,
every representative of the land.
I write to her in autumn leaves.
“You left something in the alphabet. ”
I am busy at my roots.
I’m not my good, unclean self –
the sun’s desire,
by chance.
Shadow autumnal mysteries with me.
The leaves will make me.
In our family, we love bunnies. We have a 1 year old black bunny named Parsnip. I have loved bunnies my whole life, and I have passed that down to my daughter. One of our mutual favorite stories is the classic Peter Rabbit. These were taken as we were getting ready to read together yesterday
.
At the sea level a polished ice.
Under it,
two polite humanoids that cannot pass,
Their painful courtesy increasing
against the cold crusted water.
I have the urge to cry.
I have for years.
The storm swirls deeply,
Blurring boundaries between
The dead and the sea.
The winter will sail
beyond borders and shore,
an elegant hole in the warm web of living.
For now,
nude humanoids,
Scratching at the well-kept surface
Of a national ice.
The tongue over the unfamiliar color pink.
Under the indulgent skin,
cunning.
Miniature Moon 