F ~ Poem

Soil Sun and Sleep are my Holy Words

A whispered rush of blows

echo

wind          blown   tissue paper petals

dissolve is swelling

eddies

this is my keeping of time

where the

unraveling of

lace

measures my months

(I adore that line)

and the forming of rigid ribs tells me that spring is near,

as is the diminishing of my locks.

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