(no subject)
I woke up with the phrase "each crop of kisses richer than the last" in my brain at 4:30 this morning. It ruminated there for a while. It's so strange how lines just pop into my head when I don't expect it, and a whole piece forms. And how that didn't seem to happen for years, and now it happens all the time. I suppose my muse is back.
Here is a 4:30 am prose.
Our mouths are hungry farmers,
and the in-between is such fertile land.
We cross the expanse
just to survey what could be ours.
We meet in the middle.
Careful conversation opens up the ground
and intonation and diction are tools for vitality.
A budding, a stirring in the ground;
caused by the words we both use,
that we choose,
that we let tumble from our mouths.
The moon hangs low in the sky,
nourishing our sproutling ideas,
and thoughts,
and feelings.
And they grow - intertwined and perfectly suited -
like The Three Sisters of the Iroquois.
The in-between is ripe for picking, now.
Our mouths meet,
and we sow what we've grown.
Each crop of kisses' richness increased
with each harvest.
Our mouths are hungry farmers,
and they are celebrating a bountiful yield.
Here is a 4:30 am prose.
Our mouths are hungry farmers,
and the in-between is such fertile land.
We cross the expanse
just to survey what could be ours.
We meet in the middle.
Careful conversation opens up the ground
and intonation and diction are tools for vitality.
A budding, a stirring in the ground;
caused by the words we both use,
that we choose,
that we let tumble from our mouths.
The moon hangs low in the sky,
nourishing our sproutling ideas,
and thoughts,
and feelings.
And they grow - intertwined and perfectly suited -
like The Three Sisters of the Iroquois.
The in-between is ripe for picking, now.
Our mouths meet,
and we sow what we've grown.
Each crop of kisses' richness increased
with each harvest.
Our mouths are hungry farmers,
and they are celebrating a bountiful yield.