artichoke seedhead

By | 1 November 2017

your spiked skull, follower
of the sun,

your scaly throat
coughing seeds to catch a slim wind.
Seeds as light as sun rays

yet weighted
enough by gravity
to never quite be air.

Blonde granary, your thorny ruff
a blighted scarf, a seed-stash,
in the jungle we call a garden

down a bank under telephone wires
you cut
a strange figure

your seeds alone
into their own eternity of green.

This entry was posted in 83: MATHEMATICS and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

Related work:

  • No Related Posts Found

Comments are closed.