clear skies. with just a few notes about what is alive.

 

from clouds unable to bleed

grows a tree without arms

upon the grave of the sun

 

the grass must be dry to have woven a nest around you

 

spring leaves. painted a small red.

almost lost in slightly taller sounds.

through cracks in the ceiling

i hear footsteps of moss on the roof.

 

blue. where mountains end.

where hearts soften. and silvered winds

flow in.