when it comes to memories, these are made of maple-sweetened salt and youth.
i can barely remember sowing the seeds for this dream,
or sewing the threads of Her delicate intrigue.
but i’ll always recall how monarch wings dance.

migrate me,
from the hush in Her falls,
to the thrum in Her sea,
and back.

liquid words wick from Her lips to my ears,
engraving upon me a divine blessing.
i dare not share them, to risk lessening Her question-less gift
but to say this;
Her fibre is intricate, and Her timbre is vintage;
and with my senses swimming this story folds
and multiplies, with a warble and a setting sun.


4 thoughts on “migrate

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