There’s gold on the thistle
pulling from her breast a mother’s milk
soft silk with tortoise shell pins in the hem
that she furiously casts to the wind
violin throats absorbing
reimagining the cadence of release
bronze hollowed bones summoning
the humidity of cicada manifestation
a gilded phantom presence
a giant of folklore who’s exhalations cloud with wings and blood thirsty proboscises
the black knight’s perfume
a chasm that unapologetically consumes
clock working blooms vine the sky
and trumpet Goddesses
where a chaos of leaded glass panes
reflecting dawn, midday, dusk, and midnight
distort storm clouds breaching the horizon
a child’s footsteps halt with the awakening to vibrations of earth tremors that shook a millennia ago
E.A. O'Connell
