the shadows became strands of hair,
bobbing like apples in lively tombs of water, & seasonal enigmas of rhythm.
prospering has little to do with you for now -
walking alone has little to do with me for now -
it's just the quirks & tides of catastrophe & birth -
but you sweet artists are seasonally whole, in rupturing, and molding with saps & salves & torrential rains, in which bathe & tilt & swim in the rich fields & currents of life in sound.
always is not so elegant as hope is hoping to witness, & yet all awaits you in the amber resonance of morning embers -
in that color scheme, that pallet of heat, there is nothing but a warm morning.
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