There's no art in finding flowers.

 

There's no art in finding flowers. Just wait calmly for a wind of active quarreling

or a meroblastic cleavage in which a disk of red stars are produced like a tympanum

of drumming dirt. Then unpretentiously warm your rumors against the refuse of the

testimony.

 

There will be great power waiting there. The power of free decision. And

If that is in fact true, then typologize the killers. Set their heads up like those

effloresce symbols in the old testament. Fluster the humming birds

returning, returning with their bellies full of sugar. Then you will have arrived.      STOP.

Declare your love completely.

 

Just remember that the daffodils are damnable with their soft corona

elongated into trumpets of butter. They won't go easily. They will run

like the wind and return to their bulbs  with their jonquil silver.

They will cover their crocus loops with saffron. And

 

only time will tell whether we will reach the unquestioned acceptability

of judgement/tyranosaur as an act of instantaneous might. But be advised,

never tell your secrets to a rose.                   Never.

 

They mean well (in their pampered existence) but only when their

spell is broken and

vanquished.

Reviews

[writing mojo]

there are seeds in the fielded spiel of this piece, like birth in emotional seasonal disorders, by which in enough light come to the wishes on my ceiling fan spinning..i am in a daze of your explosive nature...makes me plant my head on a pillow and dream of the words you think about...amazing

[Emily B]

chicory is my summer friend