• Michaela


Green thoughts of a growing thing Frilled from soil to laced and yellow umbel Merriment in every stem and sprig Although at root 'tis a simple herb and humble Uplifted by adding to the dish White wine and cream and gently browned chanterelles Poured o'er fillets of sweet and fresh-caught fish Gladdened beyond its lonesome falderal It cuts through happy, sour, crunching brine And sits among eggs like a nesting hen It smells of warm earth where it finds its spine And so rooted all else can then begin


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I have heard that there are people Who manage the motions of their lives Without the days when it hurts To choose and also to be still And that in their stillness they do not tremble And their throats

Evolving Consciousness

You killed the me I would have been I took the hurt like water takes stones Whether pebbles or boulders they all sank Left their ripples fading, but sank And I ran like a river Singing and sparkling s

World on Fire

Beauty. Fire looming and smoke pluming and all Isee is beauty Through metal eyes that cannot cry and I make myself a stone Skipped across the creek sunk in its bed, too weak To douse, and the wind pic

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