Here goes...my initiation into the blogosphere. My pledge is to write and write and write verse for the next collection. Ahhh, November - it feels ripe with opportunity, spring like... a southern hemisphere thing, feeling vernal so far north of the equator even with the light in retreat. Subtly changes the planet, and might I just be heeding some deeper urge - starting something new at the end of a season... a hair in the pudding, a molecule drawn toward a larger shift - on the magnitude of magnetic poles ... why not, even now?
Death Might Be Just A Holy Rend And life a faithful pillow - a pillow to go flat, a spirit to drift off, glaciers to melt and raise the sea. The blueprint is clear - Expect a tiny storm of mercy– full of crows and bottle flies to debride the corpse, to tithe the land. And respect the putrid demise - things that fall apart make space for miracles. Yet there persists the memory of breath rinsed in lavender and salt air. Then the dreams for blood and semen to revive, to metabolize every tired, sad gospel into a hatch of octopus. Death confesses everything as she conjures her necrosis, as she feigns redemption, fools us with false devotion. She believes our defiance will set her free. We must let grief to be the thread and needle to darn the rend, renew the cloth. then we can grasp the nascent green of winter wheat in spring.
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