The mouth heals fast

Tongue is too fat
to speak-
not because I bit it,
when I should have
known thy musclar
self-well-enough-
when I should have
known well enough
to shut up.
It is still swelling-
pride protrudes itself,
a warning-

NEVER
put that in a poem.

And Do Not Step on the grass
while seeds sit on top, germinating
like a poem. Too much
disruption
dislodges
any potential root
formation.

It is best not to flex with words
or assign metaphor more meaning
than conceivable
or suffer the stretch.

Here the open gash pushes
the inside out-
hypersensitive to air, this is where
salt heals,
and the best solution
showed its work,
long-hand,
ones carried
over the columned
poem.


Painting by Jules Breton [Public domain], 'The wounded Seagull' 1878 via Wikimedia Commons.

Season-ings

To witness growth
one must take a step back
but not remove themselves
from speculation,
change, like belief and bubbles
alter in temperature and light.

As the gardener cannot see his progress
the bloom feels its way,
leaning on its stem,
aiming was its own reward.

Mothers are often blinded
by this slim proximity
notice the pulling chord
that is heard as heartstrings
plucked.

She knows all things grow over night,
the young years thunder on tired legs,
over time, the smell of blooms and bodies
become intoxicating,
telling.

It felt like Summer,
it was Spring by morning.
the light rushed in
ahead of the sweeping breeze,
but we knew it was coming,
we smelled the way
things change.


Painting by Frédéric Bazille [Public domain], c. 1866-67 via Wikimedia Commons.

Bountiful ball

The harvest moon is up
and my stomach does not growl.
There is churning in the earth,
the reaper is due-

But none look when he arrives.

There is the usual warm glow
where a sinister mood once brewed.

Alas, there is no warmth or desire-
I am no longer hungry.
The moon goes on along
shining orange and strong...

at least the grass is getting greener.