and my fears melted into pain
puddles, that completed
our exit. i am dried moss
who smells like lavender
and cries with longer earrings,
now.
your web of art consoles
our footed
webs.
and in the crevices of my
socks shadow, an ant
colony is building their
distilled utopia.
wilderness beneath pure
white literature; stained with
purity and inconvenience.
pages of our slow collisions
are burning with unbraided
sweetgrass.
i am nothing short of
a tradition built in
trees. structured in my
soul's peace;
the worship of magic.
settle your grief beside
my change..
and i will ground you
to our whole.
