Spring feeds on their love making, on her pain, on her blood… and helps her birth life into their garden. The canvas that wraps her babe’s bones is still red, malleable and fragile, with the sweat of her inner paints. Her womb feels empty, but her arms and heart brim with tomorrow’s green.
When her babe cries in the night, she grows teeth on her thorns, shoots iced-flames out of her eye, and cold-burns any threat. Her all stands between her babe and the unbalanced darkness—the dark that promises to pull, to reap, to crunch, to swallow and excrete, if she ever closes both eyes.
bloom, bone of my bones;
be petal, fall, be snowstorm
mom’s guarding your all