poem one hundred and sixty.

as i stand barefoot in the kitchen making paper i think of you the pulp drips down my wrists a chaotic rain inside and out the petrichor permeates my soul even perfection is deckle...

poem one hundred and fifty nine.

for you to find the space inside yourself where flowers bloom and return so often it becomes home so meek and comforting nestled in a shaded wood so expansive, far-reaching you scarce see the border your own thriving kingdom it whispers from across the sea and...