Ink to Ashes

When my ink burns
hottest, thoughts of us scream
old wants out of my pen,

and

the me who loved you starts to ache
for the fiery words we howled together.
But I know you are a scorched page,

I know

happiness turns to ashes
when self-love is slaughtered
so that lust can feed.

I know

your blood has gone cold
and your lips sing poison.

 

for the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.

Under Winter’s Shroud

The woods wear brown, hints of green, and a scent I can never describe to anyone who hasn’t tasted snow as it melts under the sun… My toes dream of dandelions and grass that know blades are manmade nightmares. In my blood, Nature sings her everchanging song.

fall’s bones rot
under winter’s shroud,
feeding spring

.
the wee notes…
– Many deliciously wild souls, in the Northern Hemisphere, are celebrating The Promise of Spring (or Imbolc or Brigid’s Day or… a few other names). Persephone isn’t back from the Underworld yet, but… spring’s coming.
– for Hedgewitch’s Friday 55 and Poets United.