when i was a child i never
raised a hand to strike the
moon
touch her cheek
bones, feel day break
over her charred edges. she
is bluebell queen damning
frost with a touch of
winter orchids
beneath her whitewashed stone
like her pearlescent tear
drops striking granite. her skin
lace was a womb for
mother earth to sing her
songs, cry heaven to a late-
blooming rose
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