ode to the flower next to belladonna the trees on south-facing mountain slopes silently musing into the nights and not the avalanche's daughter whom the hills sing praises and woes
her soul's a quiet unison, meno mosso a choir and composer spun through ***** pipes, doors cracked and never fully closed, (there's light beneath the lids...) she'd like to think of herself as the wind but she's content as still air between prayer beads--
and if not the star dust--then who? why else do we call pauses rests? Why then is there beauty in fermattas? In crescendos that vibrate the material of the immaterial--if such things happened to be true for the unwild and untangled the perpetually pianissimo, the leading and kerning-- because she would much rather be an empty vessel or a plate without food, a seed or a grape on a vine because neither go without lords or masters and