Spring Equinox

a hex climbing on grandma's hammock, turned upside down, a lashing aground, an arm bruising and a twist of wrist

a crawl back up, eyes quickly fading in sunlight and shading, staring up skirts of newly budded trees

a rake standing stiff as if human would, sharp toothy grin, bird house screwed on chest and mailbox glued on torso

a soul that has eviscerated all insides, as eyelids finally close into lost existence and pleasant doze

a jump from purple flower to purple flower, tiny hand holding the other of an unknown lover, we dine and gaze

a worm shouting below in the distance of worm infested worlds, weaving from one dirt pile to another

a woodpecker tapping on deciduous tree, the woodpecker engulfs us, the worms surround us

a fire smoking ribs with frothy beer, children exchange toy swords; and I, in my head, half dead


~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

written 04/04/2010 throughout the evening
photo taken 04/04/2010 in the morning
poem edited 04/04/2010 10:15 est
poem trimmed 04/10/2010 8:54 est