twoblueviolets

Astronomy room.
post storm; window open; wet. 
cooling Earth soaked air.

One sentence, they wrote, and a hundred fingers set to keys and responded.

sewing soft stitches in unnerved unsteady lines 
still new at old practices, still young as the thread winds 
around a needle’s head, through the almost-fabric like 
skin. 

Familiar is this earthly language, these archives full to the brim. 
It must be how the world got magic, these rhymes of life and limb. 

Breathe. 
In. Out. 

A calm breath, 
a solid moment stuck 
in the middle of chaos.

Count to a number you call 
lucky. Every number is lucky to somebody. 

poison berries, so simple yet seductive,

Brambles beckoning like a throne beckons to

a Crown —sinking its thorns deep as if they grew