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  • Writer's pictureMichaela


By the time I made it from drawing the curtains to the front porch All the glow had slipped off the clouds again Like apricot jam sliding from warm toast And the wet branches glistened marigold. I felt my grey pajamas and slippers Unsuitable for such a morning Rushing to greet the sun and Forgetting to leave my ashes. Better to wake naked, eager skinned, Skip the rote propriety and Honor her wildly, primitive as she Who, gracing our sky, is all herself. I gape and taste the heat of her, swallowing the gold of her, Filled until I leak her radiance We are native to ourselves, she and I; Fruit of blossoms, born of trees, Kindled in the deeps of time until we burst Birthing ourselves day by day Astonish passers-by with what we make Pheonix beacons shining about our natural state.

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