You live in the words of a garden,

Hyacinths, Lilieae.

I am a flower picked there,

root by root. 


--

Every night my heart descends,
it quivers, 

a rattling storm 

among the moon-faced.

Counting lights, illuminated breasts,

sparks of light 

an ebb and flow of darkness.

I paint, I write of love and demise

– poignant and severed.
A reflection of a black
bird,
with a soul aflame.”
~Of Moon & Stone

--

Solitary forests, like me, abound and serene;

I envy your howling songs, the moss-covered shapes of soil.

Depth-lit eyes above; cavernous necks of life.

Haunt me like moving ghosts, 

breathe, breathe.

~The Trees Like Nectar

--

Here I rest, a woman or doe–

revealed, washed with dust

bound to 
dying monasteries.

I nurse the sleepy
strength

and awake in defiance:

with my nest of rabid songs.

I tell them, voice cracked open: 

my bear skin is no measure of worth,

I have gathered the Earth to my breasts
–
the scents of my bear fruit;

the pieces of fertile womb,

the burning golds.
~A Woman Disrobed