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february 3, 2020



My moon flower blooms

Like witch hazel in winter

Bleeding from the stem

Drops of red on white

In stillness of the season 

Before the days lengthen 

And pleasure is prolonged

Like the fragrance of 

A sweet summer rose

in your hand and mine.


And still we water from

The roots to grow both

the flower and the pricks

The spikes draw blood

Before the bud blossoms

So the fruit of my labors

Are too cultivated late

In this natural cycle of life

A flower bleeds 

in her hand then mine.


All flowers must wish 

to be roses or some other 

thorny thing like the blooms 

of a cactus sharp in her 

Boundaries, a budding 

Curiosity unfolding in the 

Desert sun and dry soil

Grounded but desolate

for a careful balance 

In god’s hand and mine.

xoxo, L

a photo series with Steph In Space and Deceptive Perspective

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