ripening

I will pay you to write for me for I am still

short of words. The few I have do not fit well.

We are misaligned.

 

I move to the open field, place small offerings

on the Sun Altar,

seeds from which the World Tree will grow.

 

But the omens are not ripe, the birds fly on

with no place to land.

 

“What if it should fail. What if it should fail.”

 

I tie my trust to a cluster of mulberry shoots

I say the prayers.

In the wind, the small flags begin to flutter.

 

7-12-13, by c.m. brooks

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~ by christinambrooks on July 12, 2013.

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