And it's time, to crawl inside oneself and recoil around what we are,
what we've gathered and what we have learned.
This cyclic metamorphism,
if we are not to struggle, our growth is at a stand still.
I rather feel the soil breaking free as we emerge,
Every year.
I feel my watered roots,
I let the words, the memories, the past,
drain from me to make room for new things that will soon bloom.
Flower petals tucked in deeply to waxed silken thread.
This dance of spring,
it wakes the dead.

S.M.

I had a dream that I was floating in a large river, almost as if I were kayaking but there was no kayak just me, sitting on the water, there were sun beams filtering through the trees, glittering down, lots of golden hues, greens and the water was a lovely dark blue. The shore was a few feet a way the grass was tall, greens and yellows, you could see a shelf of dirt where the roots were visibly reaching into the soil, on through to the water as well.
I felt a rush and the water began getting faster, suddenly Rory was also sitting next to me, he was a bit more frantic than me, he was reaching to me a bit and not able to sit straight up so I pulled him in my lap. I could see a bend in the upcoming portion of the water, rather than take the risk of a possible waterfall,
I moved us closer to the shore, got Rory on land and almost felt the urge to keep on with the river.
But it wasn't time, I would not be going anywhere without him.
I climbed up onto shore with him, and there was a valley, filled with hundreds of wild flowers, it looked like what my grandparents yard felt like when I was little.
I suddenly felt, this is Rory's part of the dream.

'Let him relish in this, these are the most important memories, this is where we build the courage to face the upcoming river bends.'

Banishing spells do such and you dared, so I took it.What you don't know is the way my energy works, when I put it out, it is a boomerang.
I'm not interested in walls.
I am interested however: in demolishing them.
I have a sledgehammer and I'm going to take out each piece, placed in front of me that night.
The wall continued growing, each time my insecurity rose, a brick was laid.
Maybe I missed when I struck the concrete,
because I look down to see all that I am bleeding out.

A barren tomb, once a warm womb,
I speak with my eyes, soft thighs.
A bruise left eternally and I sulk alone.
At 4am, I tell my secrets, purge and I can not be satisfied.
I scaled the walls, to push from the inside,
contracting, with her shell loosening.
I watch my skin pulling back.
I am in the color of night, painted, with hues of blue.
I run through fields and dreams of ghost children.
I am casing houses in the woods and kicking in windows.

This is spring,
I'm reaching my fingers through soil, up to the light.

Untied.
Miscarry.