White fleshed the wild roots
cold in caves of soil the bulbs, the tubers
burst through aged brown clay, wet through mud slick rains
sun drunk buds of tulip leaves, petals painted pink
bird chirp and groan of ponds, a soft bedded mossy home
of woven fern and forest fronds, home to night's invisible frogs
white moon dogwood blooms, calls heard lovelorn
through an open window.

In spring, green along the river
amid ancestral foothills, we walk deer trails
wild in the woods of scented pine
of silver sycamores, silken barked
stark, they pale against bluest skies
their new leaves green and glistening
we are listening for songbirds, for a language without words
transfixed, through this portal, reborn in this world
warm winds speak sweet and susurrus of spring
melodious they sing, leaving far behind
the cold, the dead of winter.

in this quiet room
i can only hear the rain knocking on my window
i can only feel the storm in my head
dark and it's getting darker
light won't ever shine
cold and it's getting colder
it's autumn in my heart
dying with every leaf
i haven't got the will to live
my body aches
millions of needles through my skin
my heart dies little by little
i embrace the pain
i'm holding my breath
i find joy when closer to death
i am drowning in tears
cutting in my flesh
the rain from my veins falling harder and harder
red on my legs
red from my wrists
an ocean of misery i'm falling in
i cannot swim
i'm drowning in a sleep
that i'd like to last forever.