what the shaman knows
nights his face shines
blueberry smears
like a pluto gray lover
crinkling upon the moon
while darkest little purple stems
innocent and mysterious
their purest of white fluffs
lean to the stars
where memories
like little dead birds
who in the air lofted
now bob like whispers
in winds, is
that the sun’s only true love is birth
for the ground’s only true life
is death sprung
Adding your comment: