can you feel it.
the pulses of fear
of greed
of love
the good and bad in
constant alternation
and blending. confusion
grows and becomes the
order of the day.
upon the hill, yserba sits,
knitting a sweater for the ages.
blankets made of leaves of grass,
scarfs from tree bark. “i am only trying to
heal these things, here and within. the
universe is becoming too scared, and
wherewithin will we prosper,
if not here with the earthen things”.
winning without winning.
love without love.
a river that dies in the desert, and
things growing in the dead riverbed out to sea.
and into these hearts.
the reckless, brutal, and ever lovely hearts.

***