it was morning,

The shade from the oak tree bent our faces, limbs became shadows.   I was a sprout, a seed to a dandle, when I first began dreaming.  When winter hunted the kingdom,  I was a writer.
longing. pitted. dimpled. alone.

As a blushing crawl, I learned to pout, and smack my lips on rotten wood.   Clocks spit numbers, leaves circled, milk soured.  Baby breath turned into dust between knuckles. 

When the saffron sun enveloped summer, I knew what I needed.  Dust to be swept by the interlock of hands.
of fingers. of sweat. my companion.
I spent seedlings, cotton, firewood, and milky pen shapes. I spent numbers.      Wandering past damsels, and pony eyed suitors.    Some plucked mare's hair, some dined in boxes, some didn't dine at all.  I tickled pebbles.

Eyes called to undress me, the world was a buttoned window.  always picking pebbles, as if you'd be hiding underneath the mud.   All my wits, the sonnets, the hums, the vowel chimes, the broken heartedness. empty, exist, shiver,  it was for you.


We could marry beneath the June Tree. pressing white feathers to our tresses. love songs brush the hollowness. never knowing nothingness.  a womb was my knuckles. now they are kissed by the bone in your finger.
we could axe the redwood down, and use it for our cradle.   Apart, the moon is a cage.  Together, we curtsy the wild river.

Writing by Amy Nelson.
Photographs for Blog post tomorrow..*