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Drunk on heavenly amber

That ancient yellow gem

of the earth wafting 

from his neck dancing 

for a moment away 

from the world of 

linear progressions.

I could not turn away

and brushed his sweet 

lips with my own

into a union with 

the whirling scent

of sunshine together.

With nothing to lose

expectations grow

running head on

my desires into a wall

of personal refrain.

At the Maypole

This time is not for us

but for you and I,

Grandmother says,

as she spins the fibers 

beneath our foundations

into subtle yarn,

which in time 

to drums diverges:


two short tales, 

loose ends to the stars,

whole and unfrayed,

unafraid of gods and goddesses

to take in hand,

to run and dance,

to feed us all into the weaving

before we have any inkling.

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