And sinks like a blind fish to the bottom of the bathtub.

when you’re talking about a pair of wool
in the dead of winter.
shudder or note,
a single seed:
i am made of earth and my song is made of words.
a pair
of scissors.

lost scent
of tea, of jasmine and of dreams,
that scent of wandering spring.
will shed light where once was darkness
shining on plates spread all over the table
like contented flowers.
sacred bowl,
moonlight precise within its halo,
rounded beauty of a diadem.


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