Outside
Conversations with Mother Nature
always feel close when I’m outside
to her dank aromatic hugs
whispers with puffs of cloud
like toasty snowflakes with
bitter balm in the air
prickling my skin
roughly ragged the way I like(d)
the way your delicate polished
nails clawed the backs of my shoulders
Think I’m somewhere
between mad and grateful
at your proselytising my atheism
in a way so sanctimonious,
laughter pissing amongst tepid rain
Blame: temporal healing processes.
think: of Mortality as a fire seething
forth, from rubbing sticks’ friction
from a gentle match lit with little antigen
to a rage of warmth,
wild cackling sparks in crispy night air,
how many sperms perish
trickling down legs excavated by medication
or splashing round catchers like bucketed bait
not to know the struggles of living.
what little I’ve learned of such
succumbs to lessons dumb,
beyond my grasp of tuition.
Loss smothers and chokes
and when fit allow a bath of blame,
wallow without space for words
for they cannot warm a heart chilled
cannot blow breath into froze lungs
cannot reach a heart stuck
outside in the cold.
meaning is lost or least as
inexplicable as the sunflowers
she somehow missed bloom.
