Xylem speak

They wait silently

to trap the deep dreams of trees,

floods soon sweep them back.




Hidden beneath the cover,

the path is precisely cut.

Figures, animals, empires,

a jungle of words

layered into a hive

where no guide is needed,

just the marker for ‘A’.


On a spring day

Her name is made of leaves

as she cups the sun in her hands

and turns it into golden liquid, elixir

blood, life.

Her face is of soil, is of water,

drawing, drawing

until her heart turns green, then red

and erupts

for the bees to collect.

Her pieces fill their baskets

and they spread her fingers everywhere.

Sparks for everything she touches.