The Verse of Being.
There were four children who wove the wicker of fire that colors every blade of grass, every eye that is. One covered the sky, in her disappearance she sparked secrets that swirled in her silent cauldron And the other, took the form of sea foam, she came and went playfully sprinkling precious salt, sea shells…
She twirls on the palm of my hand skin puckered to the swish of her clear skirts tap-tap bare footfalls up my arm blowing through the tangles of my weeping weaves whistling by the drums of these winding caverns Thump~ a beat ‘Listen’ Thump—Thump! ‘Listen!’ she howls ‘The river of blood that runs through All.’…