The earliest shoots of spring sing of death,
leurs hymnes solennels emportés par le vent,
gravity in their greenery as the earth turns
at their growth and draws down stripped ribs
& moss-darkened skull, winter's kill claimed
by its successor. Last year's youth, a buck,
arched in repose, verdant promise pulling at
sun-bleached bone, sipping sorrow and shadow
across the leaf-heavy threshold they breach.
In vernal voices vowed: what winter culls
we collect, nothing lost we won't return.
Or I Give Myself Very Good Advice, But I Very Seldom Follow It. Echo lives in a basement apartment, walls softened with photos, posters and paintings--but only one of him, out of the way by the linen
Start with putting your ego on a longer leash; you can't let it go entirely--why write if not to tell yourself about yourself--but it mostly just gets in the way of getting anything done. Next, write.
The only mine I've ever known has been hard-fought, hard-won, all bloody knuckles and broken ribs, all set shoulders and subtle sneer-- won't take no for an answer, defiance the only way I know. It's