|photo by sbwildflowers|
You are the fire on the prairie,
the indian paintbrush,
the flower I consume,
but only just enough.
I pick seeds of roadside wildflowers
from the dust on my jeans
& plant them in the neglected,
around the office, on bedside tables
& barren gardens;
a floral terrorist of owl's clover
of fire spread,
like the shaman's voice
on the prairie
My feet are butterflies.
Yours are hemiparasitic - able to create,
but taking life, to sustain itself
from the grass
& forbs - it's how you survive
of our middling.
Your petals on my tongue
are life & death - too much/too little,
how much is enough?
If you can live on the harsh exhaust of our coming
you are stronger
than I am.
These are really notes, scribbles in my notebook in preparation, as I was researching for a poem that I was writing - I will post the final poem on Thursday. I have had a few people express interest in my process of writing - and there are a few of these that I think could stand alone with a bit of massaging.