stillfugue

Heart pulses in big bubbles,

Larger than cities with lights.

Dirt pushes and reaches toward our creator.

Brown grass slices and breaks snow,

Crawling with snakes and rabbits,

Disguises our bright intention

With violent shapes.

Furry white moves with civilization,

Sifting puffs carry brown injuries,

Unyielding, unblemished symmetries.

Cottony evenness cares for humans.

Startling lines of geometries

From a mind that cannot be grasped,

Channels and tracks and lines

And even puffs of pillows,

Our blood flows in the deep, warm dirt,

Despises the smooth, unbending frozen crystals.

We are earth and all of her good,

bound up in volcanic dirt

which wants to explode in magic.

Then, all of the wood it is, the thickness,

More branches than particles in the snow.

It is all temporary except our spirit.

Spirit escapes the dirt through channels

Left by our creator.

Spirit is permanent,

Moves without hindrance

Amongst the birds.

We float above the blasphemous grass,

The persistent trees.

We drop great, big, green

Balls of enmeshing gas.

Brown grass retreats.

It softens against our tornadic

exhales of pure love.

Black Birds gather in great throngs

To cheer our magical patchwork,

As all softens to our powerful push,

We see gentle, dissolving,

Silk blankets healing all.

We know all is right,

All full of good.

We crawl back into

Pulsing dirt,

Blood that makes us whole.