"Poetry and hums aren't things which you get, they're things which get you. All you can do is go where they can find you" – A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh
The earth has come through it’s rapture,
bursting through as if too plump for it’s clothing.
Gently the new year heals its fracture,
scabbing over wounds from a year of self-loathing.
Like an adolescent it has sulked beneath a wet, dank exterior – Fighting the gentle light of it’s own contentedness.
Where all brightness has been inferior,
and the world has wallowed in its own embracing mess.
Let new life crawl into spring,
sprout-lets seducing the naked ground,
making the earth a bejewelled thing.
So vital it makes the earth look crowned.