I am the one.
I am the mother of the electrical thistles.
I am the struggle within the love between the fields and the sky. Videos are coming.
You’ve asked me why I feel distortion between these quiet clouds
Why these thistles are dissonant
Come and have a sit here, at the foot of the apple tree and count the
clouds. Close your eyes and listen out. Do you feel lonely?
Can you feel the wind on your eyelids, the same wind you
curse. Lie down. Pick up a stem.
Recount the clouds…. Touch them with your fingertips or with your sigh
It’s smoothing.
You’re right, it’s boring.
Do you also feel this void and spring deafening. The city is not far but
invisible. Do you feel lonely? And rooted to your dreams.
Are you lost? You are wondering what you would be doing without this void.
Open your eyes and tell me that none of this matters, that this could be
our own reflection that you scratch with shadow less words that you could
merely keep it shut and listen to the sun burning your skin.
