I let this percolate.
I search through brambles I search through brush, I search through the things that are ugly in loud "snuff" but what do I care for the load that does not hear? I am aware of what is now and near.
Cedar, Alder, Old Grandpa Maple are all of the Vashon Island wisdom that we make fizzle. And nestled down with the mossy frost bite given is the little might that is Oregon Coast prism.
Soft shell take that only a hard eye can detect, you are honest and uncompromising in your earth quake'n shiver.
We bow. The magnitude of earth make quake forsake placate and yes absolute masturbate is of legends and souls. The moss-masqueraded faces of "sure!" are overseen by the tendrils of waves crashing to stories, clam-sucked and fury.
Life is life. Moss is moss. Ocean is ocean. And yet.....
we need to to find our connection of flurry, fight, plight, sometimes-given territory for grounds of good spite, flight, for all we know make us known in this realm as the ever lasting makers of might.
This message is for the children we are fortunate to bore, donate, surrogate, birth, hold, more. And I say, "What the Fuck more?" Lets make it for-sure.
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