A little seed planted in the ground searching for the water buried beneath the layers upon layers of brown.
Separated by the color of dermis ornamenting each variety of flavors.
Trial and error to baste the roots today, some flourish; some die and others do its bit to suck in just enough to hold onto the sun.
Storms and frost keeping it all in check so as to level the field turned up for what.
A desert breeze runs down a thoughtless seagull at the mercy of driving to fast. Speckled red hitting the pavement.
She tells me to shut up for cheering her on as the ball makes contact with the bat; probably a projection of what I used to believe so naively when the maiden went snooping into my diary.
Sad face unnoticed by saving what we can this drought season before winter sets in.
Stalking the worms from the silk meant to be boiled and burned for my grandmothers recipe to open the lungs, yet her convincing tone sets others to see it a different way.
Locked into the work of the day and none the wiser to all forms of germination happening during the night. Narrated by supernovas and black holes.
Honey pots and strawberry guava ripe for the picking at the end of the bend, with no effort that our hands had spent on valley and acres ready to be put to bed.
Hissing wild echos chasing imprints of imagination under the covers, safe in the warmth and screened in for everyone’s comfort.
Searching for meaning with kaleidoscopes and newspapers screeching songs no longer heard by any sensible logic, enjoyed tenderly in those pages of his diary.
Maya Rose 