Awake to a deep root world of dark beautiful bogs like peat. You breathe in spores. You are a fragile husk of petrified bark. You are tree sap and fungi and sunlight succulent through your tender flesh glows. You are slowed vestigial, reduced to spines. Your stomata transpire to the dawn coo of chorus.
Fired soils crack as ancient stoneware. Amputated boughs slump to heat-kissed orchard, pale dirt. Each day another scorched earth policy. The garden blooms its pallid clumps. An open wound of chronic maladies. At least the rugged weeds in fervour, and by god the all fermenting stench. You shrug off blistered skin, but Words cannot convey your faith in ruins.
Delivered from a crisis of common names, you ripen with the first blush of binomial nomenclature. Latinized your epithet lavishes sinews of scientific syntax. Rifling days upon days through abundances, ambiguities, you carefully repeal the herball's vulgar order. Slow! Lest one slip of the tongue cite sentimental synonyms.
Raszy lives in an old timber house on the edge of a forest. Watching rocks grow moss. Rifling through piles of leaves. Restoring a small cottage garden, wildflower meadow & deciduous woodland.
Contact: raszy (at) posteo.net
Links: Journal at write.as
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