Poetry

It used to be home, this earth:

A place for roots, and the

rich tangle of tendrils,

tracing our dance of decades,

below as above

 .

But now the cracks we pretended not to notice have softened and sifted

and slithered away,

making us exiles who have no choice but to stay

Poetry

Creation is mostly conceit,

The Bloodroot beguiled by its bloom,

Estranged from the ancestral feat,

And crushed into dye for the loom.

 

-GB, Mar 26, 2016