Mutuality through potential is the small flame of a fire built on hope.

Each log placed in careful awareness,

Slow churn of the breeze both food and threat.

In an indeterminate direction.

A terminal contradiction on the backdraft.


Not so much breathing,

But a tessellate exhale,

Through a forest of such pure morning,

The medicine almost too much to take.


The soil is the consolidated pattern of every tear drop,

Left in anticipation of change,

Like the slow boil of the soul in a new encounter.


In the hearth, there is a prayer

And a dare to whisper,

Everything I hope to be in love.


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