offerings
Three cold suns
eat red stone--
full and rough,
vase plays with absence
behind cold glass.
Outside the sky is old,
night is orange,
you give me a mitten.
Earth offers herself--
clay,
bowl as base creation:
hard hands cupped,
water and
condensed tomato soup
waver before your lips.
Small-strange-world,
hewn to hold flowers
and soft warm spaces.
eat red stone--
full and rough,
vase plays with absence
behind cold glass.
Outside the sky is old,
night is orange,
you give me a mitten.
Earth offers herself--
clay,
bowl as base creation:
hard hands cupped,
water and
condensed tomato soup
waver before your lips.
Small-strange-world,
hewn to hold flowers
and soft warm spaces.
oregon
Magpies calling
white dream mountains
back home.
Cry songs of old dirt,
husks shivering,
forgotten nests in eaves.
The crows hurt my ears here,
praising mud and
sweet leaves and
quiet shining things.
October is cold,
confused;
the days feel like scrambled eggs.
white dream mountains
back home.
Cry songs of old dirt,
husks shivering,
forgotten nests in eaves.
The crows hurt my ears here,
praising mud and
sweet leaves and
quiet shining things.
October is cold,
confused;
the days feel like scrambled eggs.
✱✱✱
| Sophie March studies literature in Oregon. Originally from Colorado, she likes mountains but has grown a strong affinity for moss and frogs. Sometimes she posts scraps of thoughts on Twitter: twitter.com/soph_oh |
