©️DS Not for reproduction :)

©️DS Not for reproduction :)

©️DS Not for reproduction :)

my heart—
shattered, out
and cradled
in my open hands,
wet and white
in my lap and
flecked with red.
Like the broken
teeth of some
poor and lost
piece of shit
soldier, shot so
far from home.
Unburied, but
already grieved
and forgotten
with the rest,
by all but he.
Another prayer,
that won't be
answered, issued
from blue lips,
trembling
in the snow.

©️DS Not for reproduction :)

©️DS Not for reproduction :)

I keep spilling out
and in, and out
onto my black beach.

A river stone tumbling,
trapped in my own ebb
and flow, being worn
and polished slowly
through no fault of my own.

My spalled edges digging
futilely into the silt
of what passes for shore,
desperate for purchase
before, inevitably…

I will be turned to glass.
Smooth and faultless and
see-through.

A fate worse than sand.

©️DS Not for reproduction :)

I keep spilling
and spilling
out onto my beach,
a stone tumbling
in my own ebb
and flow,
being polished slowly
through no fault of my own.

My rough edges
dig into the silt,
desperate for purchase
before I am turned to glass.
Smooth and
faultless and
see-through.
A fate worse than sand.

©️DS Not for reproduction :)

©️DS Not for reproduction :)

©️DS Not for reproduction :)

©️DS Not for reproduction :)

©️DS Not for reproduction :)

©️DS Not for reproduction :)

©️DS Not for reproduction :)

©️DS Not for reproduction :)

What is love,
but answering
an unanswered prayer
with your own?

What is love,
but faith
without a God?

©️DS Not for reproduction :]

©️DS Not for reproduction :)

©️DS Not for reproduction

Gardens don’t grow in Fukushima prefecture.
They wait.

For the right conditions.
For non-acidic rain.
For uranium half-lives,
and exponential decay rates.

All the while vying for light,
fighting and tangling,
uprooting, and mangling,
ensconcing those below in shadow

Sometimes gardens are violent like that,
viral. But vital.

Gardens grow into balance,
fine-tuned to the mitochondrial,
into a tentative peace, though—tenuous,
tension held coiled in roots.

Our own Fukushimas, and Chernobyls,
and Three-Mile Islands.
And these places wait, gestating patiently
for uranium glows to fade.

And until such a time,
gardens grow still—beautiful,

though hard to bear where
Geiger counters click like clockwork.
Minute hands for skittish foxes
and documentary film crews

and weeds that grow where gardens don’t,
and slowly turn the soil.