Mourning song

This new season holds promise when it comes to love
a 10 billion pixel panorama is set
before my eyes, my ears, before my skin and you.
Budding green shoots, look at the way they are going.
They can’t be stopped while overhead the clouds roam like
giants, like ceiling ghosts. While under the earth a
stirring. A bridge made of flimsy rotting wood, fat
with decay yielding. And you think that you struck gold
and so, here we are. All there is left is too watch.

A golden shovel to Sylvia Plath’s Morning Song.

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