Faithless lovers, faithless fathers. Clumps of cardinal feathers on Fairgrounds road. Enormous moonlight, heathen hemlocks. When my tongue ceases its manipulative striations.
Mud daubers, Pam Dawber. Mirrors only work when there is a source of light. Given silmarils. Loneliness as a form of holiness, and us as a form of loneliness. Atop the old chicken shed, blue jays.
Laughter on Iron Flat road. Mist rising in the cattails. There is hunger and then there are hungry dogs. Atop the local hill, we cry out to the stars the names of our sons and daughters.
Ecstasy has not been a stranger.
New flowers in the tangled bracken just shy of the old dairy farm. What is wild is not alien, yet it feels so, and the feeling is not itself a problem. Kayaks at dawn nudging the black glass of the river. Voices carry.
The sound the knife makes slicing broccoli for a stir fry. Goddess of the image - guardian of imagination - comfort me, who am your servant.