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diary/2021-01-01.md

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+%title Ideas for some music
+
+Art songs, poems by Dwale.
+
+-----
+
+'''
+The seasonal storms have poured upon the grassy flat,
+The leafless stalks abound like thirsty mouths.
+Puddles form and soon are swarmed with little fish,
+And all the arid life has fled despair.
+
+And here, wrapped in rain, lies the oldest soul,
+The changes wrack his bones with painful cold.
+His skin is like the sky at night, as many scars
+Have marked his hide as there are glinting stars.
+
+At once he feels his lungs become bereft of breath,
+His daughter nudges him, to no effect.
+She walks away rememb'ring days they stalked the plains,
+Within her womb there grows a golden bloom.
+'''
+
+-----
+
+'''
+Summer, season of hot insomnia,
+That much never seems to change at all.
+Laying awake in the red desert night,
+I shape forest from shade and wait for fall.
+
+Ten years now gone, and who thought I would miss
+Cricket songs, cicadas and katydids?
+Then I'd gladly have grabbed a big hammer,
+Smashed them flat as Pinocchio's conscience.
+
+Testing palisades of clocks and yardsticks,
+No advent waits for the restive dreamer.
+I bandage my tattered, bitten left hand
+And shed the smoke rings on my cloven finger.
+'''
+
+-----
+
+*Face down in the leaves*
+
+'''
+We crawl through moist humus like millipedes,
+Feasting on dirt and dead, crumbling leaves
+While striped skies cycle through violet hues,
+While time's kisses take the shape of a bruise.
+Endeavors wear the warmer years away,
+Reduced at last to heaven's dormant clay.
+Alive, I lick brambles until my tongue
+Tears, despairing ever being so young.
+
+I think of you. I don't smile when I do.
+
+A moment more and then the day is gone,
+In evening grey, we mourn the vanished dawn,
+And so on, maybe waiting for someone
+To come drag us back to where we belong.
+In dreams we interred, with your pure throat bare,
+I know your breath, your jasmine-scented air.
+Alive, a god to mites and mud-daubers.
+The harvestmen scuttle and bob onwards.
+'''
+
+-----
+
+*Dirt Garden*
+
+'''
+My garden of foxtails and milk-thistle,
+Alive and wild, more so than tended rows
+In growth, has died. I killed them a little,
+The crab-grass clumps, Datura and nettle.
+"Time and time, I commit these small murders,
+To whose benefit?" I ask why and wonder,
+The scent of sap on scuffed and bloody hands.
+If I indwelt some luring scrap of land
+Far from here, secluded, my own to call,
+I would welcome these same weeds, one and all,
+To plant their roots in my warm, earthen roof,
+Just they and I, with no need of reproof,
+And thank the thorns for making a hale fence,
+The compost for being my winter blanket.
+'''