spring is her season. we met her in May, when fields were full-flowered and thoughts of snow stowed well away. that same melt feeds her down and deep, the warmth that wakes from winter’sleep with trickles turning torrent at each dreamdustreambed’s yawning mouth. (did you hear about the breeze who loved a boulder? she’storied similarly, [. . .]


Salamander says, in long and sibilant stresses, “ssshe seemsshy t’night, eyes tuck’t aback those tresses.” held aloft, he‘s speaking soft, speaking to the one who binds his time (the fleshly one, that blend of five set so aligned to be inclined to come alight when most alive); speaking by his sparking, so rising-red reflects his [. . .]


the tablets of my tribesmen taught me: truth is buried deep, and shallow is the shoveler who lays down to wail and weep when his digging into destin[ed]a[c]tion strikes a stubborn stone; the bold barehearted know that even boulders break before their burrow-boring bones.

so when my darling aerling dropped me, i didn’t brush the [. . .]


we were standing in the sky, and she was singing. i’d expected it be cold, but felt no chill. my ears were ringing. on earth, her voice was shrill, but here her tones were tempered by the air, its thinness, its restless roving rivers of reverberation–in this slow cyclone her song took on a soft [. . .]