my book is still a baby

A flush only nature could conjure, trails lazily through the garden, leaving blooms in her wake.

I will give such care to the pit in my stomach. The compost heap of head thoughts and heart feelings that gravity guided.

Until one day I can form the fruit of my words, and hands.

Honey. Its floral source, sage, coating my tongue; my wisdom something soft and unbothered in the morning light.

A vanishing pedigree of wild things and child things.

And to my body, I add intention.

Day chasing the moon from its throne to better listen to your tale.

I wait for the moments when another tells me ”it’s like nothing else.”

Gladly, do I fall headlong into those territories that steal a breath and give back awe.

The earth, like my body, hums.

Slow like the steady cut of a spoon through honey.