Tilt/Shift

Eco Vulvic Whimsy

Deep cold freezes fingertips,

For the love of, what?

As long as it stays there, for now,

And doesn’t reach my heart.

Stoic, inward, resilient,

mulch beneath the moss,

the road is forked and forked again

the west wind wanders, lost.

Don’t mourn the death of an idea,

a puffball filled with spore.

While this us may not see the fruit

it’s rising from the core.

And somewhere further down the line,

a young sun rehearses morning,

as entwined spirits celebrate,

the golden dawn, stretched, yawning

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