i have grown flowers out of the marrow of my bones i have harbored seeds from the blood that flows i have created skies from the pain in my eyes and i do it all for you, my wildflower
Close your eyes count to three, it'll go away, it'll be okay, four, five, six open your eyes you'll be fine ten, eleven, twelve when he died, I lost my sight I lost my purpose, twenty, thirty, fifty I will never be okay. . . & that's okay. . .
Before the storm, the river had all but given up, the guttural roar of wind and deluge rattled all souls, except her and in the aftermath she swelled and bore delicious weight again and my eye-contact with the pageantry of the green headed drake told all the muddy truths: to underestimate is to lose