Morning walk…and my thoughts trail in all directions, apparitions revisiting earthen routines…with arms that search the dawning blindness, the energy imprints on the hands and roots in my senses…for the first time this Spring, the air finally carried the scent of sunlight and photosynthesis…my tongue ghosting the impression of green…young leaves horizon-bent in their glories, lush and songful in the breeze…my bare feet soaked in comfort from the warming slate, radiating through nerves, the length of my legs…blood flow and I breathe…walking the garden I find a sprig of the columbine had bent overnight…the slim stem a model of strength, not easily snapped between my fingers…the singular bloom, a bowing symmetry of formidable curves…in the dark hours, a young rose had been devoured…and my mind, enrapt with thoughts of a soft mouth that can endure the spike of thorns…what sounds it must form…
E.A. O'Connell
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