frequent lakes latch onto the
knitting needles of an older mother
which hatch a neck-full of pearls then
then slowly slowly stitch a dragon.
a sun, slim, fleshes into
smoke and feeds the
geese; beaks filled with bracken
that bronzes by the hour.
this lake quells
the copper knots of
trees and i think of the puff
in the moment after a match.
unknotting, fires pool into
orange windows. the heart
of a tree, cradled over a stormy
stream, passionately breaks.
it never heals. mouths
of wind hold all wounds
quieter than dust.
By Louder Than The Storm writer, Amelie Maurice-Jones.
