How much of what we say bears any weight? Are your words meaningful? Do they carry conviction and truth about something? Or are they heavy as feathers? The world’s words are 99% lawless, meaningless shit. About 1% (I postulate) edify.
Blossoms turn to tinder and ignite
like tiny dandelion snow flurries beneath a dancing cape.
Tis spring frozen in a conflagration—
fall melting the year away until it is a wisp—
words and promises prostituting themselves empty
so they too can become meaningless.
For all abundances of nature speak.
Bracken dries and cracks in summer
to relieve the sun of its watch as it blisters and fades.
The variable shadow adjusts its dimension—
pursuing and relenting at the urging of masked currents,
assailing like robbers in darkness,
against owlish backdrops,
always threatening to leave,
but always drawing closer like the satin noose about the neck,
frightening feeling out of sanctuary and flogging the next season.