Mother Spring

Last minute of darkness from which aura song illuminates the eaves and draws forth grub 

determined orbs

Task and toil weaving a knotted homeland of rare earth truths, pause in their faithful 

symphony 

All hear the final breath in the waking dream upon which her feral teeth grind storied bones

Pulverizing into dust the battering wind that howls an ugly bruise deep beneath the 

sanguine tissue

In her exhale she casts green thoughts from the pain, asking of the roots to summon 

humming wings and lady beetles

Through the chill that draws fabric close to her breast she catches fragrant blossom growth 

within new buds

And the golden seam that severs for morning's abundant glow, casts a slant of light on a blue 

eye waking

With the acknowledgement that she is no less wondrous, no less enigmatic, no less true in 

nature as the Mother that enwraps her in Spring

E.A. O'Connell