Saturday, April 17, 2021


Perhaps the heart of a moth hides a house of spark. It is a prick of plush, part blood, part chalice. This heart runs a most beautiful path around any dread much as the heart of a butterfly rifts in petals of lift to embrace the crisp swoop of dawn – a true window to trills, leaps and soars.

Maybe while the heart of a wasp is a czar that cannot be confined, it may be best to leave her nest alone. Is it really worth all the sting to bother her? Blue-quilted silks veil the gusty hearts of damselflies darting and dashing in fitful dreams of mist through shifts of leafy trees, gilded wings barely visible. So it was when love slipped inside of us. 

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