Pain told in our small time becomes a windswept seed to providently tend, and less a thistle snared deep between each breath.

It is the moonbeams of breath cast between us that conduct me towards cloudless hours.

Draw the harshness of your flowers through fault lines in hurtful spaces and their tenderness in wonder towards the sky. Become the tallness of beauty you have longed to feel within.

Within my mind words become waste but the silence self-conscious; an impossible oubliette always held slightly apart. This snares my voice to great storms, things that don't apologise, the world that doesn't wait to strike.

Where you walk within my life the earth is bruised to speak; flowers spring from buried orchards of breath, the heralds of your loving season.

Sinking into the tidal flats of night, I am moved by the oceans above; and by the infinites below; by the compass of your breath that calls to me between.

Rain slipped across my hungry spaces and from below a forest grew to fill my thoughts.

Prune your spent flowers. Restrike your roots to the soil. Follow the earth of tender things.

I collect things. Not words, but the landscape of them. The nightswimming, cold water pursuit of thought. The earth that some may like us mercurial as we remain.