deep in the clean loamy. in the dark froth of top soil and odd moss - deep
in the tendrils of microscopic cosmologies; fecund and rampant with life -
the long reed holding the wind's note in it's throat
in the failing light, beneath the canopies...
you're gasping. you gasp
at the habit of
love's heart  
and the little things, teeming
in the underneath.
where gnashing teeth are dead leaves.
and yellow is origami
in the dappling
of the sun.

and the peace.