Geode

Black trees tonight and moon – a landscape held by snow. It’s times like this I remember my child playing ring toss – around her, the scent of cut grass. But, I have no child, rather an open womb in an empty room with antlers and wood – and shadows light reveals. A fire ripens inside a rock my husband owns, this house the ritual around it. He wants to break the rock open, see if its promise is true. See if trapped inside there is some brilliant weather or moonlight or a bird’s bright feathers.

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