Monday, August 21, 2017

I am weave




I am weave,
flows bare bones of the land,
roots, blood my stealth;

streams mountain hair,
hillsides’ ruminations,
meadow fantasies;

bleaches sunlight,
sugars earth,
rips the seas’ tides;

calls clockwork from branches,
buries bones in soil, drags days behind,
stirs the year.

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