Don’t mind the O
it’s just the last stop before the crow
spring-topped shower in all its finery
coded delicately for its binary
debut, in the showers and flowers
rising up like sandy towers
no blood where they lay,
just another seedling for the play
of petals on the fettered den
the nightly contrition of the zen
tools trailblazing incisions
into springtime’s timeless revisions—
they’d say we’re all within a trance
if our bulbous natures didn’t love to dance.
The Waking Den 