it’s sparrow season and our scripture is written in all the flowers that have fallen giving way to seedful pockets and the colorful dead withering against a paragraph of clouds and cold. let’s live behind pines like a fence that gates the sky. let’s gather up the gray birds, the insistent asters, and taste the memory of boreal forests gone up in smoke. we wouldn’t dare scrub the ash and ink from our lips. we covet as much as we can. we learned it, in fact, from the wind jingling the leaves of aspens like coins it can’t bear to spend. it kills us that the fireflies went dark when we weren’t looking slaughtered like stars at the edge of the universe. but we stared as long as we could greedy as we are for every photon desperate as we are to not be erased.
This is so good!!! “slaughtered like stars at the edge of the universe” hit hard.
Thank you, my friend! :D