i walk, bare feet, souls to the earth, thirsty grass crinkly beneath, here between winter and spring, peeling peaches in sticky, sweet fingers, undressing tender flesh, pressed to my lips, a small sun, radiant with energy, then suck clean the seed, cleave earth's womb and drive it deep.
i am not naive, pride hollow, enough to believe it will grow just because i laid my hands to it, birds wait in the trees, worms turn and some just die, despite our efforts, because that is what we do, in light of life's menagerie. adorning my head in ash to remember those fallen, unborn, stolen, because it wont weigh me down, i hear them already, watching from perch and dirt, waiting for sleep to overtake, but i keep moving.
its raining, puddles patter, symphonies streak windows, natures modern art festivals where i want to walk, bare feet, mud between toes, eating peaches, resembling suns, we revolve around, planting seeds, souls pressed to the earth, getting sticky.
written for imperfect prose
update on my foot....healing nicely, i over did it a bit yesterday and it made sure i knew it last night. been resting it this morning and will give it another bit of exercise this evening.