The Flowering Bough.
The Flowering Bough
Whether it speaks only in anger, or laughs with many tongues, sober or
lush, its girls shall travel outward, far from heart, from root,
universal silks shocked by the world's bruisings, inflections of
flame dimmed, buds' circuitry blinking.
Ants traverse with their own burdens, unexpressed traffic of emotions.
On the wind-shook edge, that cradle-less minimum, are buds flocked
both flower and offspring condensed, last moments detonations or
endearments. Then calm. Then the world. Then the world as they know it