A snake in the path,
we keep to the weeds,
and the old orchard’s awake.
We grow drunk as blossoms
take to the breeze.

And the pipers
line up to play
and make their claims.
The sun lays everything bare,
making it harder to hide.

My heart is a seed —
a volunteer —
and you are
a damn fine gardener.
And maybe you like a surprise.

I’m down and running
under the new green grass.
On my knees to make pay
in the new green grass.
There’s no other sweet left to sell.

And they come with scythes,
the grim choir of pipers.
You cultivate a shadow
in which I might hide —
but they wait it out.

It shortens, and they begin.
Collect a bone.
Collect a bundle of nerves.
Collect vessels full of blood.
Collect my sunblind eyes.

Still, the hidden root goes deep,
and we master the alchemy
of wind, water and light
to bring forth from it
something stronger than before.


About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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