Best swaddle our babies in veery song suspended on a breeze.
Light meets day in its bud, gently uncoil each hour.
They expect warm milk and kisses, we savor their sweet perfume.
Find children as fresh earth, as body of amber clay.
Layer on layer, by moments etched, we mold them home.
Best swaddle our babies with apricot sunrises that open into May.
The feast is not in the kettle when elbows dimple the cloth;
only picnics of stories so satisfy like desert rain.
They expect dragons swarming the castle, we savor paper cranes.
Decades unfold a family like an aspen clone claims its slope -
pushed open with birth and marriage, deepened in woe.
Best swaddle our babies in butterflies laced in lucky saffron.
Waking hours hold the key to
their brilliant minds free, feathering daydreams with angels.
They expect to track a creek forever, we savor safe returns.
Raising children pours like sand for a painting, every grain counts;
they’re not ours, they belong to the water and the wind.
Best swaddle our babies with sundogs hanging in the summer sky.
They expect warm milk and kisses, we savor their sweet perfume.
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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