golden misery, roots fed by history, brittle and dry, tickling knees, causing
This lagoon: placid and firm, easy to see through, drinking the wind, cooling our
This rock: Solid made from liquid. Metamorphosis how we construct history,
a place to rest, an object of death.
This weed: an unwanted irony of beauty, invasive seed gathering light from a
fertile need, capable of choking the breath from a natural flower.
This cloud: Mass of nothing, it seems, floating above, blocking the sun, the
aimless drifter that multiplies loaves of bread and fish to eat.
This love: The earth in me. The ground on which I sleep. The food nourishing me,
unpredictable terrain, from where we originate and will eventually
return to give back, so easy to abuse, so important not to lose
what we reap; so we become.