Added: Tika Loggins - Date: 24.12.2021 04:25 - Views: 38749 - Clicks: 8346
Read their full bios here. How did the trees did the heat Trees heat. That is heated up. A planet of heat. Burning hot. Russian prose has two words for the color blue— goluboy and siniy —light and dark. Invite folks into your home, not your house. Opening his eyes, he saw him kneeling near. Then make them pay in blood as our retribution, And the battle once won, celebrate in the aftermath. The day was now ours, and Allahu Akbar we cried out.
The battle now won; we gave thanks after ablution. I could say he stopped mowing a long time ago but the truth is his face burnt and eyes bloodshot he is part of the field this small camas prairie with its swales a town in Switzerland is his last name difficult to pronounce like a roar echoes and avalanches fall down slopes of cheese and cheese makers.
The hay is ready after the rain and the sky looks innocent back to the time way back to their music their bells. Oregon is not Switzerland Oregon is much bigger. I could work for you I could be your daughter your wife you.
Construction on the Amazon tower is paused. Orange boundary flags flutter in a downtown convection oven. Dead hornets on the sidewalk under a Cascadian heat dome— once-in-a-millenium some say but. The girl next door 30 Coldwater Kansas 30 biologists say all life, even trees, is simply the planet expressing its heat. Is nothing gained for all the strife which we fought; Does this story conclude without amends?
Does not Allah tell you, race to do good deeds? And He will make clear matters we differ about. Oppression is worse than murder; if they attack, punish them, A fair reprisal for what the aggressor impedes. Now close your eyes until you awake, Aslan, and contemplate all you have seen and this addeem. Now is th time we get trashed in the literal sense and stop showering all-together because there is The girl next door 30 Coldwater Kansas 30 time these daze and those dandelions.
We sat in front of screens that never revealed our feet. My dear, I have never lost interest in the sleek curve of calf, lifted to towering heights between heel and toes, the uplift of my sole. But I made an exception, once, for you stole my heart. I felt so tall, so elegant. I had to practice walking to cross the room. So I stood, and sat, and draped one leg over the other, you dangled from my foot with acrobatic grace.
Then you sat In the closet forlorn, waiting for another call that never came. As I aged, even the pumps shifted to the back rows of the shoe rack. Birkenstocks and Oofos prevailed, along with sneakers. Finally, replaced by the sheepskin slippers with stepped-on heels.
You might have thought the fashion passed, women were wiser about choosing comfort over style, but then I saw the photos: streets of New York with women dressed for work again, high heels. You are the life of the party, the picture of elegance, the promise of seduction. I could not find my mind. In the heat we became docile to air. Pavement made it so. Plus all the cars. One with Tom Selleck. You tumbled in love with a job— an art—you were captured by it, even as it ate your only body on the grid iron, the catwalks, with the lift and push, the line haul.
And you were so captured you said only yes and yes, until the god walked out, closed the door, took your car, stashed your spare key in the old phone booth down the road. And you watched the masked lonely city pace on sidewalks—absent creatures scanning for a new kind of congregation. Death and destruction, not even children were spared; This ghastly feast would leave any man hollow. The few that were left huddled, shivering, and scared; once discovered, they too were put to the saber. Hellfire and smoke and the scent of fresh blood; Such was the harvest for which they labor.
I watched horror at all that had befallen, Would there be an end to this barbarian scud? The flowers, white as cold breath, had been dead for the thirty minutes of their journey from a complicated, dynamic connection to the fecund earth system, to a glass-blind vase further obscured in clarity by tap water.
I am amazed, every time, to watch a plant come back to life in the presence of water. The speed, slow, steady, fast in my limited viewing, seems paranormal. A plant that returns their open mouths to water begs the answer to immortality. I feel ancient and small like the mountains boxing me in.
I saw in front of me the present Atlantic Ocean Boots, hands, the family voice I felt in my throat, or even rocks indicate a former deep ocean basin existed. It smells of seaweed, it smells of clams Oceans open and oceans close. While I waited I read the National Geographic. An ancient supercontinent broke apart And now you lose the smell of the ocean basalt lava flows erupted from the rift then it was spilling over in rivulets of fire making the floor of the widening Iapetus Ocean. It grew so broad organisms could not cross it.
Orogenic events are episodes of regional deformation, metamorphism, pluton intrusion and mountainous uplift. Outside, sediments caught between the colliding landmasses squeezed and deformed Oh, I must go down to beach, my lass And step on a piece of broken glass subduction brought about the closing of the Iapetus Ocean The Iapetus Ocean exists no longer.
Of course jewelry, glasses, hair gaze funny The difficult questions crying Calling the long white scarf generosity Savvy geography. The tears I spill in anguish for my sins, loss, and shame, they shed like drops of rain meant to wash away my pain. I cry tears in tiny rivulets like a stream of endless hurt, caressing down my cheeks there to puddle in the dirt.
Oh God, touch my heart and soul, and take away my aching sorrow; replace it with just emptiness so that I may have a new tomorrow. I never imagined love and grief to be bedfellows in collusion. But they stole my heart like a thief and left me here in cold seclusion. I cannot know Your plan for me or what the next day will hold. I only know this wretched agony, not The girl next door 30 Coldwater Kansas 30 God may have foretold. Too well wed on storm water and cicadas And small flowers these seeds could crush Upon collision like sprays of a thorny creature.
Sleeping, unaware, and seemingly safe in warm piles This small floral kingdom is cruel, and overpopulated, And unchanging since before I knew you at all. And that coulda been okay Instead I went into odd jobs And last Three-day-off weekend I stayed in the Cherokee queen Motel watching cartoons, trying to outdrink Winehouse. And it turned out okay, the place always had these little breakfast pastries And free bags of ice.
Away for the weekend, I texted my husband — the loons were so loud outside the cabin they woke me up at midnight. Autocorrect changed loons to lions. He wrote back: where are you? Maybe I should let Autocorrect steer my life more often. One aspect of the pandemic was to autocorrect my plans for retirement: travel, teach, live in France for a while—my calendar was filled for the first 12 months.
As each month passed, I erased my plans, and at the end of the year I burned the empty s in our new Solo firepit. I spent a year or more at home instead, washing all the windows, planting a garden, reading and writing poetry. After the waiting, a growing heat comes, like new blood from tissue when stitches dissolve. Calm your breathing.
Your body knows how to heal, darling. Even your blood is a cleaning solution—with antibiotic forces—more alive than chemical bonds, stronger than gravity. Just thank your skin, this scar-collector, for being hungry, knitting ragged bits into itself. You made a study, Riot Grrl, loitering around the wire display racks at Hot Topic and similar mall jewelry shops. You thrilled as plastic piercing guns— no longer recommended, dangerous, often held by girls the next grade up— pressed studs into your ear lobes.
Quite the connoisseur, you even once ran a sewing needle through a flame, let it cool, then clicked it slowly through your own helix—the skin felt hot-bright, yellow. These teenage body atrocities were absorbed. The incision sites rest as pink em-dashes— zippers waiting for the right sentence to interrupt. Memories of you are the pillow, I lay my head upon each night. Do you also wander back in time, to those days we once shared? A time when we were the present and neither past nor future carried.
Though those times are in our past, like two ships going separate ways. I pray you happiness and good tidings full of satisfaction that you deserve.
May our paths one day cross again, with more fond memories to preserve. It was more like plucking hairs one by one from the scalp of the earth, wet mud caking my gloves and fingernails. I parted the competing vines to their roots, working my ancestral way to what I wanted, differentiating the two by color: magenta base strawberry ; emerald vinca.
I think life is all about creation, and creation is playful.The girl next door 30 Coldwater Kansas 30
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