Barky trees, crescent moon, frosty bitterness 

Good deep soil takes aches away

Rooted in this place 

Others, under the same crescent moon

Drink in stony places

Bitter frosting us both

Bark, long and dark 

I’ll never meet them

Not now or soon or ever no matter how I swoon

My flowers bloom for them as much

Grow up, from this frosty days

Into the misty spring

My bark, bark grows ever mossy

Moons pass

And the frost comes and I wounder if my rock biting lovers 

Are doing as well again?

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Lacertae 

Ducks. Snow. Tamed memories.

Little things I remember. 

Your presence. Essence. The place in the world your had. 

Eclipse. Moonshine. 

Pentagram, in a logical place.

Never, ever, even being. 

Your words that saved me. And these little things I do. 

Pain gone. That’s a comfort.

I’m trying. Trying to be worthwhile. 

Desolation the empty. Insidious clouds empty snow. But they are fleeting. 

Worthwhile? What is that to a tiny snowflake? To a duck on the lake waiting out the rain? 

The world, the essence of it, comes from our little bits of time. 

Yours, to breif. 

Grasshoppers flags 

Down by the course dirt lane

The hard presence of the pebbles 

Cutting the hot sun baked grasses 

It’s grasshopper, working to raise the littlest flags 

His tiny little empty empire has hard times

Drought and floods,  growth and death 

They both come as a hash brown 

Sand wasps and birds seek him out

Each with a different evil agenda 

If either are successful his empire ends

Nothing left but his little flags

To be rotted out next flood

Or burned by a forever sun 

Grasshopper has to raise his flags

To bring a mate

Will his family be a reality?

Cloud and ground 

Clouds change

Like white sheets in the wind

Sometimes they hold rain

Throw down lightning and hail

Then wispy little ones like scales on a fish

Sun comes in this sky

Changes it heat from day to day

Through the clouds

They eat her rays gladly

Wind chases them like a little child chases butterflies

Ground is changed by these clouds

Hit ground with rain and plants come through the pavement

Hit the ground with hot dry sun

Hit the ground with mist

A succulent kiss on the ground from the clouds

Ghost Buildings

Lights from faded

Grass grows

Little ants crawl 

Leaves flowing into my body 

I’m a pretty little thing, even in death

Rotting at my full body 

A little more time 

Their is a fox that loves to forage in my foyers 

Birds in my eves nesting 

Wasps are taking the little insects out fighting a endless tiny war against the spiders

With wight a wings a seed pod falls from a kurrajong 

My foyer becomes its home and soon I watch it grow

Down the roots fall and dig 

My basement has a little more Earth in it now

Then I feel like I will be gone soon

My floors start to crumble 

Coolabah seranade 

Changed and charged to the chanting of the hazy summers

Rising steamy visions of the mirage 

Eagle flying and searching 

Barely a cloud above the scorched red earth 

A creekbed just below his ancheint sandles

Waiting in this sunlit virtually brings you to feel hell

Then suddenly a whisper from the tree

The dance of the new rains will begin 

  

Tree, a life of

Ground swallow me whole. Become my comfort.

Spirals form and twist me inside out. The wind comes and gently touches my form.

Ice falls and inside the moon.

My eye opens and three gardens of life form.

Clouds of stars above, striking the sky above as a blessed drum.
Punctured beats singing abound my head and captured for a moment by my senses.

In the morning my three gardens full with joy, open and sleep again each evening.

Breath takes my flesh like fire as a new garden forms. Again and again. Bare the old dead garden falls. It has had a good place on my form, I will grow others.

Drink the cold rain.

Endure the freezing ice.

Celebrate the new spring as I seek a new way. Send a message.

Send a new path.

The flowers grow, like my gardens but less whole, less lived. They last but a few settings of the life giving light.
But they are replaced by this feeling.
A new path is forming.
Not just one.
Many millions.
It blossoms. It rages. It aches me to our all the spring and some summer into these… Things. My body compels.

They are gone. One sunrise. I again store all the gardens joy inside. Wait for the cold.

Year and year.

Day and day.

Until I feel a prickle. A itch.

Then I am on the ground. It swallows me whole. And the former self reborn, I find myself starting back.