the ecosystem that young children wake up on Tuesdays before dawn to try & save treading muddy gray roadsides spiriting away cigarette butts faded azure beer cans thin shopping bag ghosts with tiny gloved handsβ this cracking frost-heave pavement landscape is my body
my body is the first gasping crocus the first chanting insects, the first murdered fieldmouse after waking
is the first meal of a young owl, all fluff and down and bone, high in a skinny birch tree and still a-feared of foxes
my body is hot loam is fevered asphalt is a feeding garden & my soulβ¦
my soul is the beating sun, undecayed, though tarnished by weeks maybe months behind curtains of Winter
my soul separate from my body for so long⦠and yet
it could have dined with God and married His Daughter before anyone thought to go looking